


when the skies are purple

by siennalene (mysticflakes)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 64,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticflakes/pseuds/siennalene
Summary: Atsumu has always been taught to colour the sky blue.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 93
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's a huge thing i never imagined i'd be able to finish, and i've spent way too much time on this
> 
> i hope you will enjoy this monster!!

The only good thing about having a brother, Atsumu thinks, is that you get to mooch off free food from him because he runs a restaurant.

“You do know how pathetic you are, right?” Osamu asks, as he scoops out the rice from the iron pot and spreads it on the tray. Atsumu rests his elbow on the counter and props his chin on his hand. The faint smell of vinegar wafts to his nose. “Isn’t it in season right now? Shouldn’t you be restin’ on a Friday night instead of annoyin’ me?”

“You don’t have plans anyway,” Atsumu replies, watching as Osamu fluffs the rice with a fork. “Shouldn’t you be honored I deigned yer shop with my handsome face? I’m promotin’ yer shop for free! Do you know how much people pay for that?”

“ _Yer_ handsome face is the same as _my_ handsome face,” Osamu points out, leaving the tray of rice to cool and turning back to check on the saucepan sitting on the stove. “The store’s been closed for over an hour. Stop yer yappin’, stupid, you ain’t doin’ me any favours.”

“Mean and heartless,” Atsumu snarks, just for the sake of it, sliding his chin off the bottom of his palm to squash his cheek against his hand instead. Osamu gripes about him turning up and leeching free meals every time he sees him, but he still makes him food whenever he visits past opening hours anyway. The fragrance of the boiling miso soup makes his stomach growl. “Can’t believe we took down Hornets three-to-zero.”

“Arentcha just braggin’ now?” Osamu stirs the soup in the saucepan, then bends down to check for the fire. “You were keepin’ an eye on that Iizuna guy who was from Itachiyama, werentcha? Good job on the win.” He lowers the heat and covers the saucepan with a lid. “Who are y’all playin’ next Saturday?”

“Green Rockets.” Atsumu pulls the salt shaker towards him and spins it with his fingers absently. “Foster's been thinkin' of lettin' Sakusa debut that match—surprise 'em a bit, y'know, since we signed him early and managed to keep it hush-hush with the reporters.” Atsumu deftly uncaps the shaker with his free hand, cheek still propped on the other, and peers inside. “Foster and Akihiko have been discussin' it, but the team momentum's really good now, so who knows.” 

Osamu turns the stove off. “Yer team’s really full of monsters now.”

“Of course,” Atsumu says airily. “And I get to use them however I like.” He watches Osamu uncover the saucepan, then screws the cap of the shaker back on before he knocks it back into place. “Do ya really not miss it?”

“Still on that?” There’s a touch of exasperation in Osamu’s voice as he moves to grab two bowls from the shelf. He slants a look over at Atsumu, eyes narrowing slightly before he turns back to ladle the soup into the bowls. “It’s been over a year since I properly started this, 'Tsumu. Don’t tell me you haven’t gotten over it.”

“Nah, we both know I’ll be the one who’s laughin’ when I’m eighty.”

Osamu places the bowls on the tray before he passes it to Atsumu over the counter. “I’m gonna poison ya one day.” Osamu shoots him a deadpan look that Atsumu’s long grown immune to as he takes the tray from him. Osamu moistens his hand in a small bowl of water as Atsumu lowers the tray down on the table, careful not to spill the soup. He’s so hungry at this point he thinks he can eat Bokuto’s food and say it’s delicious with a straight face. “Why are you suddenly on that, anyway?”

“Dunno. Thinkin’ ‘bout life.” Atsumu takes a bowl of miso soup from the tray and blows on it before taking a sip. “Fuck!” The hot contents of the bowl nearly sloshes over his fingers in his hurry to replace it on the table. He sticks his tongue out in an attempt to abate the burn on his tongue, breathing through the roof of his mouth, as he pinches his earlobes with his fingers. “It’s fuckin’ hot, 'Samu!”

“Fuckin’ idiot, I literally just served it to you,” Osamu says, not even bothering to spare him a sympathetic glance as he continues kneading the rice. Atsumu’s stupid for even expecting Osamu to pretend to have a heart for him. “Put yer tongue back where it belongs, I don’t allow pets in my restaurant.”

Atsumu growls at him, but eventually retracts his tongue. “Dick,” he mutters, glaring down at the offending bowl of miso soup. 

“Don’t blame your idiocy on my food,” Osamu says mildly. Somehow, he’s already done with shaping the rice and wrapping them with fat strips of nori, sliding the prettily plated onigiris across the counter. Atsumu perks up in his seat, taking it from Osamu and carefully setting it down in front of him. Osamu wipes his hands on a damp cloth. “It’s smoked salmon and avocado.”

“Aren’t you tryin’ a new flavour?” Atsumu asks, eyes on the fat, steaming onigiris as he hears the counter door swing open. His stomach rumbles. “Is it not successful yet?”

“I’m still testin’ out different variations,” Osamu replies, sliding into the seat next to Atsumu and pulling the plate of onigiris over so it’s between the two of them. “Are ya volunteerin’ as guinea pig?”

“When have I not been one,” Atsumu says, snatching an onigiri from one end of the plate and taking a huge bite from it. The crunchy nori gives way to wonderfully warm rice, and the thick slices of well-seasoned salmon fall apart into smooth flakes, melting on his tongue. He’s barely finished with the first bite but he munches into the onigiri again, cheeks stuffed full with rice as he remarks, “Can’t really taste the avocado.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Osamu takes a bite of his own onigiri. “I can taste the avocado fine. You just don’t have the tongue for it.” 

They sit in silence as they devour the remaining onigiris, Atsumu’s eyes drifting to the horizontal scroll of hand-written menu in Osamu’s neat, precise strokes, hung high behind the counter. The space below collects a scattering of children’s drawings: all onigiris drawn with cartoonish eyes and smiles. 

There’s a new addition since Atsumu’s visit last month, and Atsumu spots it because it’s not even _trying_ to resemble a triangle, what the fuck. There are whimsical spikes and loops in place of the typical three corners of an onigiri, the nori strip rainbow-colored and the rice a startling shade of pink. Two antennas are extended from the top of the creation, with an eyeball attached to each end. At the center of it is a smile stretched so wide it reveals two rows of human-like teeth. Atsumu’s both fascinated and a little disturbed at this point. It’s like someone threw a kid a bunch of color pencils and said, “Go wild and draw an alien onigiri!!” and the kid did exactly that. 

Atsumu finishes the last of his onigiri and licks the stray rice grains off his fingers before he reaches for his bowl of miso soup by the side. Osamu digs an elbow into Atsumu’s ribs before his hand even reaches the bowl, and Atsumu hisses in annoyance, snapping his head back. “ _What?_ ”

Osamu remains unmoved by his irate response, face phlegmatic. He jerks his chin towards the bowl of miso soup. “Pass me mine too.”

“You could have asked for it nicely,” Atsumu grumbles, taking the bowl he drank from earlier and setting it in front of Osamu for petty revenge’s sake. Osamu doesn’t pick up on it, and Atsumu watches with childish glee as Osamu takes a huge mouthful of the soup before he turns back to his own. “The newest picture is weird as fuck.”

Osamu glances up at the wall and grins. He doesn’t even need to ask which one Atsumu’s referring to. “Don’tcha think it’s kinda cute?”

Atsumu raises both brows at his twin, incredulous. “What?”

“Everyone draws triangles or circles for onigiris because that’s what we grew up seein’. It’s the norm.” Osamu shrugs, lifting his bowl up for another mouthful of soup. “So many of us don’t see beyond that. Kids kinda see the world the best, y’know, because they are untainted and untaught. They see things as they are.”

Atsumu swallows the last bit of his soup, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “It looks wrong.” He stares at the alien onigiri again. “Onigiris should be round! Or triangles!”

“You sound like Mum,” Osamu says, rolling his eyes and putting his bowl back down on the table. “She dropped by last week and went all, _that’s cute but this isn’t even onigiri anymore_ , but it _is_ because the kid drew it believing it is. So it just is.” He reaches across Atsumu to stack his empty bowl on top of his. “Mum misses you, by the way. You’re barely two hours away by train, you should visit her some time.”

“When did ya get so philosophical?” Atsumu asks lightly, pulling a pair of wooden chopsticks from the holder. He picks at the loose splinters. “You weren’t like this before.”

“I grew up, Tsumu,” Osamu answers simply. He tugs away the pair of chopsticks Atsumu’s about to break apart, shoving it back into the holder. “Like you should.” He tilts his head to the empty plate with rice grains stuck on the porcelain surface. “Now do the washin’ up.”

🏐

Atsumu finishes the last rep for leg curls with a deep breath, tightening his grip around the support handles as he slowly lowers his legs back to the starting position. The clenched muscles at his hamstrings loosen as he relaxes, still face-down on the bench, letting his legs dangle loosely below the roller pads.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Atsumu exhales and pushes himself off the bench, grabbing his bottle by the side for a quick gulp of water.

“The list is getting released tomorrow!” Bokuto bounces over excitedly, neck flushed with the exertion from the bench presses he was doing just moments ago.

Atsumu tugs his towel off from his neck and wipes the sweat dripping from his forehead. “What list?”

“The try-outs!” Bokuto exclaims, voice ringing loud in the otherwise silent gym. Sakusa walks past him then, shooting him a look as he makes his way to the weights. Bokuto is undeterred, though, snapping his head back. “Aren’t you excited, Omi-Omi?!”

Atsumu slings the towel over the back of his neck and looks over to Sakusa.

Sakusa has stopped near the rack of dumbbells a few feet away from them, currently pulling out his trusty packet of Clorox wipes. “It doesn’t really matter, as long as they don’t drag the team down.”

“How cold!” Bokuto complains, dropping down on the bench opposite Atsumu. He fixes bright, shimmering eyes at Atsumu, obviously still intent on continuing the topic. There has to be something more to his excitement, with the way he’s so fired up about it. “Aren’t _you_ excited for the new prospects?! Think anyone big would show up?”

Atsumu massages the ache that’s starting to set in at his thighs. “No idea. If we are lucky, we might get a good opposite since I heard Foster is looking out for one. Barnes is a great cannon with a wealth of experience, but I heard he’s considerin’ retirement in a few years. We don’t have a solid opposite to fall back on yet.” It also means one more option for Atsumu to play around with on the court, and it’s a prospect he looks forward to. “I actually thought our team managed to snag Komiya along with Omi-kun, but he went to sign with Siena straight out of college.”

“The one who led Waseda to win the Intercollegiate Championship in his second year, right?” Bokuto scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Omi-Omi took the MVP award this time though.”

“Yeah, but Komiya still remains as one of the most promisin’ recruits for the V League.” Atsumu moves on to massage the other thigh, applying firm pressure with his thumbs. Majority of the sports publications thought Komiya was either signing with the Jackals or the Adlers. He had taken a quick look at his statistics and immediately understood why the pro teams were all vying for him. “He was all the magazines could talk ‘bout when it was confirmed he’s joinin’ the Italian league. But it’d be good experience before he comes back, too, since foreign teams train very differently from us.”

“That’s true,” Bokuto says, but he’s still staring at him with wide expectant eyes like he’s waiting for something else. 

Atsumu decides he’s too spent after his work-out to entertain Bokuto’s mini guessing game, waving him away dismissively before he moves over to the open space near Sakusa to do his cooldown.

“Have you sent Coach Akihiko your January records yet?” Sakusa asks, after a few minutes of silence.

Atsumu straightens his arms and folds forward as far as his body would allow, feeling the sweet strain of his muscles under his dry skin. “Nah, not yet.”

There have been a few adjustments in the team composition since Masayuki left the team last year, and the position of the assistant coach was filled in by Akihiko. There’s no distinctive difference in the training regime, but Akihiko appears to lean towards micro-managing, because he asked everyone on the roster to send him a record of their workout routines at the end of every month. It’s a little annoying, to be honest, because Atsumu knows his limits best and he doesn’t need anyone telling him he’s pushing himself.

“He didn’t say anything about your extra sets?”

Atsumu slowly pulls back from his stretch, flicking a casual glance over. Sakusa must be in-between sets, because he’s seated cross-legged and bending his wrist backward on the ground at a _completely_ freaky angle that never gets less fascinating every time he sees it. “Stop staring,” Sakusa snaps, when he lifts his head and catches Atsumu looking.

Atsumu juts out his bottom lip to an exaggerated pout, but returns to his stretches. “Can’t help it, Omi-kun. Yer wrists are like rubber!” He bends forward again, hands flattened against the mat. “He did ask ‘bout it, but Takanori-san already okay-ed Jack’s workout routine before I went ahead, so he didn’t press the issue.” _One, two, three._ “Just talk to Takanori-san. He’s been our team’s athletic trainer for years, and he’s _way_ easier to communicate with.”

“Hm,” comes Sakusa’s only response.

Atsumu releases himself after he counts to thirty. “The coaches have always been flexible as long as you hit the expected hours and don’t go too far beyond that.” Atsumu adjusts his position for his next routine. “Plus you are following the routine of the strength and conditionin’ coach you work with, so it’ll be fine.”

Sakusa grunts in response as he starts on his second set of reps, and Atsumu lets the conversation end there.

Atsumu is just finishing up his cooldown when Bokuto comes over, rolling his shoulder with his bottle gripped in his right hand. The mysterious prospect he was on about has probably bull-dozed to the front of his one-track mind again. 

“Tsum-Tsum! Omi-Omi! What if I told you that an _amazing_ all-rounder is coming for the try-out?!”

Atsumu arches a brow and exchanges a look with Sakusa. He doesn’t seem to know who Bokuto is talking about either. It’s got to be someone who Bokuto is familiar with, otherwise he wouldn’t be _this_ hyped up about it. “Awesome then, because he gets to have _me_ set for him.” He leans back on his palms. “Who are ya talkin’ ‘bout, exactly?”

Bokuto folds his arms against his chest, lifting his chin and beaming down at Atsumu. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” There’s an obnoxious amount of pride in his tone, and Atsumu leers back at him.

“I wouldn’t know if ya don’t tell me anything,” Atsumu says, starting to lose interest in the conversation as he moves to kneel by the mat. Bokuto is a social butterfly everywhere he goes: who knows if he isn’t referring to a stranger he happened to befriend at a random volleyball scrimmage. He wipes his palms on his leggings and begins to roll up his mat. “I’m not gonna get excited unless you tell me who it is.”

“I’m not going to! It’s a surprise!” Bokuto tilts his head back and aims the nozzle of his bottle at his mouth, swallowing a quick gulp of water before he continues, “You will never believe who it is!”

Atsumu finishes securing the adhesive straps around his mat and stands, pressing a casual hand down to lean part of his weight on it. It has got to be someone they all know then. That narrows the possibilities down significantly. “Unless you tell me it’s Shouyou-kun, I don’t think it warrants this level of excitement.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen almost comically big as he bounces on the balls of his feet restlessly, looking like he’s about to combust from keeping the name a secret. “You can guess!”

Well. That certainly _is_ telling enough. His fingers drum restlessly on the top-end of his bundled mat before they curl into a loose fist. He’s only heard of his name in passing the past few years through Bokuto, and even then, the things he knows about Shouyou doesn’t go beyond his name, the country he’s currently in, and who he coincidentally bumped into his first year in. Seems like he’s finally back from Rio now. And charging head-first into _their_ team, no less.

“I suppose you’d be goin’ to watch the try-out then?” Atsumu asks. 

“Of course! What kind of question is that?! I’ve got to support my number one disciple!” Bokuto declares proudly. That only confirms Atsumu’s guess; the only one disciple Bokuto keeps yapping on about is Shouyou, really. Bokuto’s eyes dart between Sakusa and Atsumu, his head whipping left and right so fast that Atsumu’s slightly impressed he hasn’t gotten dizzy yet. “I will be asking the rest on the group later! Are you coming too?! Does Omi-Omi wanna come?!”

“I don’t mind goin’,” Atsumu says. “We usually don’t have practice during the week for try-outs, anyway.”

Bokuto turns to him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Really?! But you never watch the try-outs!”

Atsumu checks his nails with measured flippancy; they _are_ actually getting a bit too long. He should trim them later. “It’s fine if you don’t want me there. I’ve better things to do with my time.”

“No, no, no! Let’s go together! We can have dinner together afterwards too!” Bokuto pumps a fist through the air with an excited cheer. “C’mon, Tsum-Tsum!”

“He’s just acting cool.” Sakusa sneers as he replaces the weights back on the racks. “He’s _definitely_ going.”

“I’m not acting cool!” Atsumu protests, slightly insulted, scrunching his face up at Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t give a fuck, though, unrolling his mat on the ground for his cooldown. “I _am_ cool!”

“We are all the coolest!” Bokuto declares brightly, hopping between them and swivelling to face Sakusa. “Omi-Omi, you wanna go? It’ll be fun!”

The corners of Sakusa’s lips twist into a look of distaste. “I’m not going. The crowd is disgusting. If he’s as good as you say, I will meet him eventually.” He bends forward as he stretches out his arms, hands reaching past his feet. _Gross_. It’s amazing how Sakusa defies human limitations repeatedly with his absurd flexibility. “And he better not collapse sick in the middle of a match this time.”

“He won’t!” Bokuto’s volume is bordering on obnoxious for the indoors, now, defensive on Shouyou’s behalf. “He’s grown plenty!” 

Atsumu snickers under his breath as he bends down to grab the strap of the rolled-up mat before he slings it over a shoulder. 

It has been years, but the memories still play out crisply clear in his mind: of Shouyou buckling forward on his knees, of him grabbing his coach by the arms reeking of desperation and disbelief, and of him finally leaving the hall looking the height he was, short and small and defeated.

He remembered the onslaught of goosebumps that prickled over the surface of his forearms and thighs as he grappled with the fact that it took _all three of them—_ the foxes, the kitty-cats, and the sea-gulls—to finally take the fucking monster off the court. 

When Karasuno lost their match that day, he made an important revelation that all sports are cruel, unforgiving gods: you pay them homage with every fucking fibre of your being, but the only thing you can protect yourself from is the regret of not doing enough. However talented you are, however experienced you are, however skilled you are _—_ unpredictable circumstances will pull you right out of court regardless. 

He wondered then, for just a split second, if he should quit with style when he’s at least still shining brightly on court, because it’s at least of his _own_ accord and not as some snuffed-out, discarded player _—_ but Kita was there, with his unwavering conviction that seeped through every word, and Atsumu dispelled the doubt as easily as it came.

What else could he do other than volleyball, really?

When he met Shouyou on the court again in his last year of high school, he was glad that he hadn’t entertained the thought seriously at all. They won by the skin of their teeth, and he remembers the almost petty sense of satisfaction that swelled in his ribs, a silent payback for the painful loss they suffered in the previous year. He had glanced back, once, and caught the predatory glint in Shouyou’s hard, brown eyes, an electrifying thrill running down the length of his spine. He knew then, with as much certainty that there will always be twelve players on court and that he will breathe volleyball till the day he physically _couldn’t_ , that it was simply a matter of time before they’d meet again. 

Atsumu doesn’t believe in fate or destiny or chance: he believes in unbridled hunger and persistent hard work. It was the unwavering faith that Shouyou will make it to wherever he is with his insatiable hunger and dogged determination that solidified the certainty, and he’s sure their journeys to the top will converge somewhere because natural and feral predators like them do not settle for second best. 

_You’re finally here._

The flutter of excitement at the centre of his chest is almost impossible to tamp down. 

🏐

Atsumu hangs behind Inunaki and Bokuto as they step into the gymnasium of Shimadzu Arena, stifling back a yawn because it wouldn’t do his image any good if that gets caught on camera. He doesn’t need more than one embarrassing clip spreading around the net, after the absolutely _humiliating…_ His face twists like he’s tasted something sour at the memory, and he shudders as he quickly shoves the thought to the back of his mind. _Never_. It will never happen again.

He tugs the brim of his black Jackals cap down further to hide the tired lines under his eyes and slinks behind the crowd to find a seat in the stands with the rest. He really shouldn’t have stayed up watching the recording for the Falcons-Rockets match last night. 

The gymnasium is sectioned into six different courts with the club volunteers donned in black shirts assisting the coaches and managers in each one. Meian is slotted here somewhere too, playing the role of Foster’s reliable right-hand man. The cameras are mounted at different angles with an assistant stationed beside it. Everyone is still in the midst of warm-up drills as they settle into their seats, and Atsumu scans across the courts to find Shouyou while he removes his coat and places it on the empty chair next to him. 

It’s lucky that they took a small detour to get some drinks from the nearby store, otherwise they’d probably be stuck watching them do drills for a good thirty minutes. Bokuto had hurried them every few minutes while they were making their purchase, even though Inunaki had reassured him multiple times that the warm-up drills always last longer than planned. 

It isn’t hard to find the bright mass of orange in the crowd, even though the players all wear the same white shirts. When Shouyou turns towards the other side of the court, he spots the black, bolded **13** pinned to the back of his shirt. Atsumu can’t help but think of how it’s _his_ number in the Jackals. 

Shouyou seems to have bulked up since high school but he can’t really tell from the distance because the shirt looks two sizes too big on him. He’s still dwarfed in height compared to the rest who are one or two heads taller than him, and Atsumu’s delighted at the observation. Shouyou’s definitely going to make an impression on the rest when he does that nasty jump of his. 

“Where is Hinata?!” Bokuto demands, craning his neck as he whips his head left and right looking for his favourite disciple, coat haphazardly bundled up in his lap. Atsumu digs his elbow into Bokuto’s ribs, ignoring his noise of protest, and jerks his chin over to the court at the bottom right. “Oh, I see him now! You sure have sharp eyes, Tsum-Tsum!”

“He looks shorter than I thought he’d be,” Inunaki remarks bluntly, pulling a canned sports drink from the plastic bag. “He’s like a midget among the rest.” 

Atsumu pulls a face at him. “You’re one to talk!”

Bokuto laughs, a hearty sound that rumbles deep from his chest. “You will be surprised when you see him play! Hinata’s amazing!” 

A loud whistle blows loudly across the court, indicating the end of drills. 

“I’m not doubting he’s a good player because of his height. I _have_ gone up against Hoshiumi.” Inunaki twists the pull-tab of his drink back. “Actually, he looks like my height, don’t you think.” Inunaki takes a quick gulp before he leans forward to squint at the court Shouyou’s on. “Holy crap, do you think I’m taller?”

“You can always ask him later!” Bokuto claps his hands together. “Let’s cheer for him now!”

Atsumu and Inunaki both straighten from their postures a second too late—they are a little slow to react because the responsibility usually falls in the hands of Meian—and Bokuto’s already cupping his mouth and yelling Shouyou’s name for the whole fucking world to hear. 

Nearly everyone on the court turns to the stands where they are seated, and Atsumu has to resist the urge to hide his face behind his hands, feeling a warm flush creeping up his neck under the sudden unwanted scrutiny. He spots Foster with a clipboard tucked under his arm, looking more amused than anything else. Meian, on the other hand, is not as forgiving. He shoots them a warning look once he recognizes them from the stands, frowning at them with clear disapproval etched between his brows. 

Atsumu normally preens under public attention, but he’s not looking for attention of _this_ kind. At least Aikihiko isn’t anywhere to be found to pile on to this humiliation. He salutes an apology in Foster’s and Meian’s direction and tries to ignore the rising murmurs in the courts as he swivels back to glower at Bokuto. 

“See!” Atsumu hisses, tugging down the brim of his cap the lowest it can go without completely obscuring his vision. “You drew unwanted attention, idiot. I just wanted to watch this in peace!”

Bokuto is completely unaffected, still making big, flapping motions with his hands and trying to get Shouyou’s attention. It’s like he can’t even hear Atsumu at all. 

Atsumu pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache throbbing at his temples. Not for the first time, he finds himself missing the glorious days of Inarizaki. At least they didn’t wear him down _this_ much. Who knew children don’t magically grow up when they turn 21?

“Seems like it’s fine,” Inunaki says, throwing his head back and laughing. “It’s over and done anyway. Foster didn’t look angry either.”

A whistle pierces through the noise to get the volume back under the control. The crowd huddles back to the coaches, though some attention still lingers on them at the stands. 

Atsumu huffs sulkily under his breath and slides down lower in his seat. Everything is okay with Inunaki as long as they don’t get into any legitimate trouble. He has never once seen Inunaki flustered or embarrassed in the three years he has known him, and it definitely wasn’t for the lack of trying. 

“Oh, Hinata saw us!” Bokuta perks up in his seat, bundled coat falling from his lap. He raises an arm and waves energetically like he hasn’t just gotten all of them in trouble literally seconds ago. 

Atsumu turns to the direction Bokuto’s gesturing to, and sure enough, he sees Shouyou waving back with an equal level of enthusiasm. He grins so widely Atsumu thinks he sees Shouyou’s gleaming white teeth from the stands, before he jogs back to position 1 in the back row. He doesn’t look the least bit abashed. Atsumu blinks and thinks _the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh_. 

The whistle sounds again after everyone settles into their positions and the coaches nod their heads, signalling the start of the scrimmage. Bokuto retrieves his coat from the ground and carelessly pats the dirt away before he dumps it on his lap again. Atsumu lounges back against his seat with his arms folded, the embarrassment forgotten as he re-focuses his attention on the number creasing on Shouyou’s back.

“What position did he play back in high school?” Inunaki asks.

“MB,” Bokuto replies before Atsumu does, the usual level of boisterous loudness petered off to a calm focus reserved typically for volleyball games. 

“Huh,” Inunaki says, “that’s unexpected.”

The jump serve from the opposing team arches over the net, and Atsumu clucks his tongue, unimpressed by the velocity of the ball. Shouyou widens his stance, bumping it easily over to Thirty-Four in the front row. The ball is set a little too short, but Twenty-Three spikes it down to the opposing court anyway, scoring them a point. 

Another whistle. Twenty-Three dishes out a normal serve. The opposing team responds with a strong hit from the right. Fourteen digs it nicely, sending it to Thirty-Four. Nine slams a sharp line shot down to the back row, where a player bumps it over to the front zone. The game goes on for a while, both sides steadily racking up points with the opposing team gaining a two-point lead. Shouyou has blended in well among the rest and hasn’t spiked the ball even once though their team is four points in, only darting around the court and offering steady support. 

Atsumu cracks his neck absently, wondering if it’s an underlying strategy or if the team’s setter just doesn’t have enough faith in Shouyou. 

The solid digs he has done so far are definitely good enough to stand out but not to be conclusively _chosen_ ; you can only perform as well as your opponents are when you’re playing defense. If Shouyou doesn’t actively find an opportunity to strike, he wouldn’t be able to show his full potential. 

“Think they aren’t passing to him because of his height?”

Seems like Inunaki has caught on too. “Who knows. But it’s not possible to avoid setting for him the entire game. They should know they’d be marked down for it.” Atsumu yawns, gesturing for Inunaki to pass him the bag of drinks they got before they headed here. Inunaki secures a knot on the bag and flings it over to Atsumu. 

“Marked down?” Bokuto turns to look at Atsumu curiously as he rifles through the bag for his bottle of coffee. 

Inunaki laughs as he replaces his can on the empty seat beside him. “It’s definitely a component _you_ wouldn’t need to worry about, Bokuto.” 

Atsumu drops the bag on top of the bundled coat in Bokuto’s lap before he twists the cap of his drink open. “Teamwork, Bokkun. We all know you don’t lack in that one.” The condensation from the bottle trickles down his wrist when he tilts his head back for a gulp. He wipes his hand on his pants and glances over to the court again. “Shouyou-kun isn’t as assertive as I thought he’d be.”

“Hinata is!” Bokuto says, pulling a packet of sweets from the bag. He tears it open and pops a few gummies into his mouth before he continues, “Hinata never disappoints!”

Atsumu lets the topic drop, shrugging his shoulders. He’s not close to Shouyou like Bokuto is, after all, and he can’t claim to know what’s going on in Shouyou’s head. 

He’s half-way through his third mouthful of coffee when he hears a distinct “ _Mine!”_ echoing through the gym. It’s not unusual for players to shout for balls to prevent clashes or missed opportunities, but this voice has a controlled edge to it, bright and authoritative and familiar in the way that snaps Atsumu’s attention over to the source immediately. 

Atsumu lowers the bottle just in time to see Shouyou _soar_ off the ground, at least half a metre above the net— _what the fuck_ —his back arches backward into a beautiful crescent with his knees tucked tightly in, right arm slicing through the air with a whip-like motion before he slams the ball deep into the opposing court with a resounding _bam_. 

The opposing team remain stock-still in their positions with varying looks of disbelief as the ball rebounds off the ground and nearly smashes into one of the mounted cameras. The stationed assistant reflexively flinches away, pulling the camera with him. 

That power, that _height_ … that’s definitely not the highest he can go. 

_"Holy shit,_ ” Atsumu hears the words tumble from his own mouth, voice weird and high-strung. 

_If_ I _was the one setting for him..._

The coffee dangles limply between his fingers as he leans forward in his seat unthinkingly. There’s a strange tightness in his throat as he swallows, eyes glued to the number 13 printed on his back. Shouyou had a high vertical reach in high school but the jump just now—even without measuring—it’s glaringly obvious that he has significantly elevated his apex, and it’s _unbelievable_. 

This is the monster he has been waiting for.

And he will be joining _his_ playing field this season. He can’t imagine how they’d be on the court together. The corners of his mouth are curving before he even realizes, his grip tightening around his bottle as excitement thrums under his skin. 

“Damn,” Inunaki whistles. “How high was that?”

“I don’t know but I wanna play against him! That jump is _awesome!_ ” Bokuto exclaims, bouncing his knees excitedly. The empty gummy packet falls to the ground with his large, exaggerated movements, but Bokuto snatches it back up without looking, eyes fixed on the court Shouyou’s on. “Hinata has grown so much, but I wanna show him how much I have improved too!” 

Atsumu props an elbow on his thigh and leans the side of his face against his palm, hiding the upturned corner of his mouth. “… I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances, Bokkun.”

🏐

Atsumu’s unfortunately tasked with trash duty after losing a game of rock-paper-scissors. He dumps the trash into the bin and sends a quick text to tell Bokuto he will be waiting outside. His feet go on auto-pilot as he navigates his way past the toilets, pulling up a tab to check for nearby volleyball scrimmages for the weekend.

“Ah! Atsumu-san!” 

Atsumu looks up from his phone, and promptly swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. 

Shouyou has changed out of the white shirt and is now striding towards him wearing a grey tank top, legs clad in black track pants. His hands are holding onto the ends of the towel hung around his neck as he approaches, a bulky duffel bag slung across his body. 

His shoulders are broader now, and he can see the outline of his pectoral muscles straining against the thin fabric of his top. He has obviously grown out of his lean frame back in high school; the build of his tanned arms are accentuated by the solid bulges of his toned muscles, with faint protruding veins running down his forearms. 

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou steps into his space, a mere few inches between them, and Atsumu drags his eyes from Shouyou’s arms up to his face, catching the barely visible stubble along his sharp jawline and the arch of his cheekbones. 

He’s definitely taller now, probably around Inunaki’s height, but Atsumu’s still a good head above him. Shouyou peers up at him curiously, eyes bright and sharp. His hair is still damp from his shower, small water droplets dripping from the ends of his hair onto his broad shoulders and the floor. “Did you forget who I am?! I’m Hinata Shouyou!”

The thought that he could forget him is ridiculous. 

Seems like his intensity hasn’t tempered over the years. He takes a step back to put a measured distance between them, mouth cotton-dry. 

“I told you I’ll set for you one day, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says as form of an answer, “and you’re the only person I’ve ever said that to.”

“Oh.” Shouyou’s lips part slightly, eyes wide with surprise. A pink flush unfurls across his cheeks. “I didn’t think…” He trails off, a slow smile curving his mouth. “I guess you must be a prophet then, Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu’s caught off-guard by that response, and easy laughter spills from his lips. “I wish I were!” 

Shouyou’s grin widens, a dimple indenting on his left cheek. He tugs the towel free from his neck with one hand and rubs it through his hair roughly, casting a cursory glance behind Atsumu. “Why are you here alone? Where are the rest?”

“I’m on my way to the side entrance to meet them,” Atsumu says. He swipes his phone unlock and sends a quick message to Bokuto to tell him that Shouyou’s with him. “We can go wait for them there.” 

“Sure,” Shouyou agrees, falling into step next to him as they head for the side entrance. 

They weave through the participants leaving the try-out with Atsumu leading the way. He nods at the stationed helpers by the barricades, lifting the brim of his cap slightly to show his face. The helpers nod back in acknowledgement and wave them past the barricades. They swiftly step through and take a left turn, leaving the loud chatters and sweaty bodies behind them. 

Shouyou continues the vigorous motions of towelling his hair, spraying water droplets everywhere as his eyes dart around the surroundings with barely veiled curiosity. Atsumu grimaces, wiping away the bead of water that lands on his cheek. “You do know you’d lose yer hair in clumps if ya keep doin’ that, right?”

Shouyou’s hand halts in its movements, and he tilts a wide-eyed, horrified look up at Atsumu.

“In _clumps_?!” He pulls the towel down from his head, leaving unruly, messy curls behind as he bends his neck to examine his towel closely. Atsumu feels the corners of his mouth twitch in barely suppressed amusement. 

Shouyou turns accusatory eyes on Atsumu after a few moments of inspection. “There’s nothing here! I’m not losing any hair!” He dangles the towel in front of Atsumu’s face as if making a point.

“I’m sayin’ it’d happen in _future_ if you continue doin’ that,” Atsumu says, pushing Shouyou’s hand away from his face. “You better hope you don’t bald before you hit thirty, brat.”

“Thirty?! That’s only eight more years!” Shouyou looks genuinely horrified at the prospect as he touches his hair. 

Atsumu raises his brows at Shouyou. “Are you that scared of going bald?”

Shouyou flings the towel over the back of his neck and juts out his bottom lip to a petulant pout. Atsumu looks away to pull out his phone, checking for new texts from Bokuto. “Well, Kenma—a friend of mine—told me that to continue playing volleyball, I better take good care of my looks too! He said that if I lose advertisement opportunities at the prime of my age, I will lose a good chunk of my income, which means I can’t pay for good training and stuff!” 

Atsumu pushes through the glass door of the side entrance and gestures for Shouyou to go first. He flashes a quick smile at Atsumu, stepping out of the stadium with Atsumu close behind. 

“Thanks! Anyway, like I was saying, Kenma said I need to take good care of both my face and body or I’d be a wasted investment—Kenma can be _real scary_ when he wants to be, y’know. I might have to do commercials like Kageyama and Bokuto-san,” Shouyou pauses, then looks up at Atsumu with a wide grin, “and you! I saw yours on the one for coffee!”

“Oh? You saw mine?” Atsumu asks, trying not to preen. The coffee commercial he did a few months ago was one of his proudest works outside of his accomplishments in volleyball.

Shouyou nods his head eagerly. “It was really cool! I’ve always wanted to ask, but how does the hair flying thing work? Your hair goes all soft and fluttery and there’re coffee beans floating around!” 

He cuts in front of Atsumu’s path and Atsumu nearly stumbles back, caught off-guard. Shouyou’s hands are clenched into fists in front of him, eyes brimming with such earnest curiosity it borders on overwhelming. “They didn’t really throw the coffee beans in your face for that effect, right?! Because that’d be really rude!”

Shouyou looks so genuinely concerned that Atsumu can’t help the laughter rising from his throat. He easily side-steps Shouyou and pointedly heads for the empty stone bench near the flight of descending stairs. That should be visible enough for Bokuto and Inunaki to spot them the moment they come out of the doors. 

“Thank you for your concern, Shouyou-kun! But they didn’t,” Atsumu says, mouth still slightly curved in amusement. He would be affronted if anyone dared do that to his pretty face. “You really are full of questions, aren’t you?”

Shouyou follows him, hands still moving in large, animated gestures. “I have tons, Atsumu-san! You look like a natural doing them!”

Atsumu lifts the corner of his mouth to a practiced smirk. “Don’t I?” 

Shouyou doesn’t seem to hear him because he has moved on to chatter excitedly about the rest of the commercials he has seen of the Jackals team, and Atsumu conveniently blocks it out by checking his phone for new messages. 

It’s like they are already friends, with how casual Shouyou is acting around him even though this is their first proper meeting. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, seeing that he _is_ Bokuto’s favourite disciple.

Shouyou pulls the duffel bag off his shoulder and drops it on the bench with a solid thud. 

Atsumu scans the reply from Bokuto. “They should be reaching soon. Got caught by a few fans because they took the wrong turn.” 

“Okay!” When he looks up from his phone, Shouyou has already taken a seat, legs swinging freely under him as he pats the empty space next to him. “Come sit down, Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu does so, stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his coat as he plops down on the bench. It’s still cold since it’s early March, and Atsumu honestly can’t wait for the season to transition to warmer temperatures. He has a sensitive nose and the cold weather isn’t doing him any favours. 

The late evening breeze whips past his cheeks, and he sniffles, puffing out a faint wisp of breath as he tilts his head back. 

It’s close to seven now, and the sky is smudged in half-blocks of dark blue and orange embers. The streetlights are already turned on, casting long, elongated shadows on the pavement. The streets are emptier than the ones he’s used to near their apartment building even though the station is only eight minutes away, with the occasional salaryman hurrying down the pavement with a phone pressed tightly to his ear. 

He abruptly realizes that Shouyou is still in that too-small tank top of his, and he turns to eye him incredulously. Shouyou’s currently tapping away furiously at his phone, his toned muscled arms on proud display. “Are you not cold?” 

“It’s not _that_ cold,” Shouyou says, glancing up from his phone with an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. His gaze drops to the coat Atsumu’s wearing. “Are all city boys weak to the cold like you?”

Atsumu’s jaw slackens, unable to believe that just came out of Shouyou’s mouth. “Hey now, excuse _me_ —”

But Shouyou abruptly closes the distance, leaning in so close his nose nearly bumps against Atsumu’s chin, brown eyes catching his. He smells really good, a mix of fresh coconuts and a body cologne that he can’t identify, and Atsumu’s words die in his throat. Shouyou drags his eyes over Atsumu’s face. “Oh, your nose and cheeks are kind of red.” 

Atsumu swallows and looks away, rolling his eyes. “Don’tcha be rude to yer senpai here. They aren’t red!” He huffs and scrunches up his nose. “And here I thought you were gonna be Bokkun’s loyal puppy.”

“I’m no puppy!” Shouyou exclaims. “I was really asking an innocent question! No disrespect meant, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou has drawn back to his own space now, thankfully, legs straightened in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He’s still looking at him though, head tilted to the side. “Do you need a scarf? I brought one.” 

Atsumu blinks at him, baffled. “Why would you bring one when you’re not afraid of the cold?”

Shouyou shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve learned that it’s always better to be prepared.” He seems to take that as a yes, because he turns away to unzip his duffel bag, rooting through his belongings.

“I don’t need it, really,” he pauses, flicking a quick look-over at Shouyou’s tanned exposed arms again, “though _you_ should really wear a jacket.” He gives the tank top a tug at its hem, catching Shouyou’s attention. He releases his hold and clears his throat. “The material’s too thin.”

Shouyou spares his top a glance, shrugging, before turning back to his bag. “I guess I’m used to how I dress in Rio.”

He watches Shouyou dig through his stuff for a moment before he tears his gaze away to the side entrance. 

“Where will ya be staying for the night?” Atsumu asks. Two familiar figures step out from the side entrance, and he raises an arm to wave them over.

“I’ll be staying with Bokuto-san for the week,” Shouyou replies distractedly, still rummaging through his bag. “Bokuto-san says he’ll bring me around next time!” 

Shouyou gives a crow of victory then, and a burgundy red scarf is promptly dumped into Atsumu’s lap. 

Inunaki's not going to let him live it down if he sees him with a scarf _on top_ of his coat. He’s already the butt of his jokes on the way here. “Thank you, Shouyou-kun, but I really don’t need it.”

Shouyou narrows his eyes at him as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his Nike windbreaker. “Your nose’s too red, Atsumu-san! You were sniffling all the while just now. I’d offer you some tissues, but I think they’re too deep in my bag and I can’t find them.”

Atsumu drops his gaze down at the scarf on his lap, unsure what he should do with it. 

He’s never really had anyone take care of him like this since Kita. _Even_ with Kita, he knows it stems from Kita’s deep-rooted sense of duty as a captain. Atsumu learns kindness and concern as a form of obligation and responsibility, but he has no idea what kind of capacity Shouyou is trying to fulfil at this point when he’s not even part of the team yet.

“I’m not Meian-san or Coach Foster here, ya know,” Atsumu can’t help saying, “being nice to me isn’t gonna help you get a spot.”

Shouyou tugs the zipper of his windbreaker up his neck a little too aggressively. Now _that’s_ something he’s more used to. 

“I’m just being nice!” Shouyou’s mouth is flattened to a thin line. “I don’t need or want to kiss up to anyone to get a place, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou angles his body to face him properly, brows furrowed, serious brown eyes pinning him in place. “Was my playing not good enough just now? Is that why you said that?!”

Taken aback by the intensity of his stare, Atsumu leans back a little, breath caught in his throat. “You were impressive,” he says honestly, holding Shouyou’s gaze. The tension between Shouyou’s brows eases slightly, and he looks like he’s about to say something else, but Atsumu turns away and jerks his chin to Bokuto and Inunaki. “They are here.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto shouts cheerily, bouncing over and wrapping Shouyou in a tight hug. “Hinata! My number one disciple!”

Shouyou’s expression immediately brightens, his cheekbones pushing up to a wide, toothy grin. A light, easy laughter spills from Shouyou’s lips as he returns the hug, the angle a little awkward because he’s still seated on the bench and Bokuto’s about twice his height standing. “Bokuto-san! I missed you!”

“I missed you too! I can’t wait to hear all about your Rio adventures!” Bokuto says, slapping him heartily on the back before he pulls away from the hug. “This is Wan-san, by the way! He plays libero.”

Inunaki steps forward, clasping Shouyou’s hand in firm handshake. “Nice to finally meet you, Hinata-kun. I’ve heard plenty about you.”

Shouyou springs up from his seat and rigidly bends over to a full ninety-degree bow with their hands still connected. “Nice to meet you, Inunaki-san! I watched your games and I really admire your heroic saves and _amazing_ receives! I am honoured to be in your care!”

Atsumu smothers his laughter by coughing behind his hand. _What a riot_. 

Inunaki chuckles, pulling his hand away from the handshake to pat Shouyou on the shoulder. “Thank you, but there’s no need to be so polite with me, Hinata-kun.” He tilts his head over to Atsumu. “Hope Miya isn’t giving you too much of a trouble here.”

Atsumu splutters, affronted. “ _Excuse me!_ ”

“Nothing I can’t handle, Inunaki-san!” Shouyou declares, not even sparing him a glance, like Atsumu is some unruly _child_ he’s supposed to take care of even though he’s a year younger. Atsumu narrows his eyes at Shouyou, settling for a silent glare in his direction. “I was just trying to get him to wear a scarf!”

“Oh?” Inunaki arches an interested brow and turns to Atsumu.

“Oh!” Bokuto points to the bundled scarf on Atsumu’s lap. “I was wondering why a scarf suddenly appeared!”

“I only said I don’t need it!” 

“Why don’t you take Hinata-kun’s advice, Miya,” Inunaki says, grinning. He’s enjoying this too much, Atsumu can tell, _the bastard_. “You’ve always been the weakest to the cold, out of all of us!”

“I am _not_ weak!”

“You were down with a cold just a few weeks ago, just because you forgot your gloves!” Bokuto points out. “And you carry _both_ of our team jackets around because you get cold easily!!”

Inunaki moves closer to Shouyou. “Yeah, don’t believe whatever this guy says,” he stage-whispers to Shouyou, jabbing a thumb over to Atsumu like he can’t hear them. “He’s a huge baby.”

“Y’all are exaggeratin’!” Atsumu protests, scowling at Inunaki. Inunaki doesn’t give a fuck, obviously, his trademark innocent smile in place. “Don’t listen to them, Shouyou-kun!”

Shouyou’s looking at him, corners of his mouth twitching. “Sounds like you really need the scarf, Atsumu-san!” 

“Tsum-Tsum, just accept the goodwill of my disciple!” Bokuto says, ruffling Shouyou’s hair. 

Atsumu jabs a finger at Bokuto, hand still clutching onto Shouyou’s scarf. “Bokuto’s wearin’ a coat too! Why aren’t y’all gangin’ up on him?!”

“But I don’t have a sensitive nose, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokuto says. “You should just wear it! Hinata’s being nice!” Done with the conversation, Bokuto moves to sling an arm over Shouyou’s shoulders with a loud cheer. “Let’s go have dinner already! I’m super super hungry!”

“We can head to Mugyu’s for ramen,” Inunaki suggests. “You okay with that, Hinata-kun?”

“The ramen’s good, Hinata!” Bokuto bounces on the balls of his feet excitedly, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. “I can bring you around for more good food at Hirakata next time when you come visit!” 

“Sure!” Shouyou bends down to retrieve his duffel bag, then turns his face to Atsumu, line of his mouth slanted to a small, close-lipped smile. “Are you sure you don’t need that?”

“Uh,” Atsumu says, blinking owlishly at Shouyou. His fingers tighten around Shouyou’s scarf. “Thank you.”

His smile widens, eyes crinkling into cute half-moons. “No problem, Atsumu-san!” 

He turns his head and is then promptly dragged off by Bokuto, who drapes an arm over his shoulder and begins towing him towards the direction of the station. “Let’s go, let’s go! My stomach is growling!”

“You are always hungry, Bokuto,” Inunaki says, shaking his head. He makes to follow behind Bokuto and Shouyou, pausing slightly to throw a sideway glance at Atsumu who’s still sitting on the bench. “Wear the scarf and move it, princess.”

“You’re always so _mean_ to me,” Atsumu whines, but leaps up from the bench and speed-walks to catch up with Inunaki, falling into step beside him. He wraps the scarf around his neck, flinging one end of it behind his back. It’s warm and soft on his skin, and he absently wonders where Shouyou bought it from. 

“He seems really cheerful,” Inunaki remarks, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “Would be a nice addition to the team. Bokuto seems really fond of him, too.”

“When is Bokuto _not_ fond of someone,” Atsumu says, though he does agree Bokuto seems particularly doting on Shouyou. “Foster definitely has his eye on him.” 

Shouyou and Bokuto are talking animatedly a few feet in front of them, both of them matching in enthusiasm and volume, though Atsumu only catches words like “beach” and “delivery” in passing. It’s like watching Bokuto interact with a shorter version of himself, and Atsumu can already feel a migraine forming just imagining the two of them together at practice. 

“Guess the retirement rumours might be true after all.” Inunaki hums thoughtfully, tugging absently at the sleeve of his sweater. “Think Foster will replace Barnes with him for the next season? It’d be a good learning experience.”

“It’d be a close fight with his jump height and defense coverage against Barnes’ experience and his ability to power through blocks. Foster might use Shouyou-kun as a sub instead.” Atsumu pulls the scarf up to his chin, watching as Shouyou throws his head back to laugh at something Bokuto’s saying. “But I have a feelin’ he hasn’t shown us everything he can do yet.”

“What’s this I’m hearing?” Inunaki slants a sly look at Atsumu, bumping his shoulder against Atsumu playfully. Atsumu barely stumbles from it, used to Inunaki’s antics by now. “Did he leave that much of an impression on you in high school?”

Atsumu buries his hands into the pockets of his coat and exhales, misty breath curling into the chilly night air. “He’s hard to look away from on the court.” Bokuto and Shouyou have both stopped near the bend into the main road, waving for them to hurry. “I’ve been waitin’ for the opportunity to set for him.”

Inunaki whistles low. “Guess you have the chance now.”

Atsumu reaches to tighten the scarf around his neck, an involuntary grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess I do.”

🏐

Dinner passes uneventfully with Bokuto piling question after question on Shouyou between bites. Inunaki joins in sometimes, intrigued by Shouyou’s choice to fly to Rio and asking about their practice drills. Shouyou answers all of the questions dutifully, sometimes in the weird language Bokuto slips into from time to time that mostly consists of garbled sounds and made-up onomatopoeia that only the two of them understand. 

Atsumu focuses on his food and only adds a comment or two whenever he thinks it’s appropriate. Unless it’s a one-on-one situation, he doesn’t have a habit of talking when he’s eating. It might have been influenced by Osamu, now that he thinks about it, since they usually have their meals together in silence. 

He now reclines against the pillar with Bokuto by his side, one hand adjusting the brim of his cap. Shouyou had went on ahead to purchase his train ticket from the machine, and Inunaki, being the reliable elder brother of group, had tagged along to make sure the orange shortie doesn’t get swept up in the night crowd of disgruntled salarymen and lively high school students. 

“So, what do you think?” Bokuto asks, voice carrying easily over the din of the crowd as he nods towards Shouyou. 

Shouyou has to be struggling with the ticketing machine because he’s _still_ tapping away at the screen, and there’s no way it takes so long to figure out how to make it work even after two years of not being in the country. Inunaki straightens from his posture against the side of the ticketing machine and leans over to peer at Shouyou’s screen.

“Whatcha mean?”

Bokuto adjusts the brim of his cap and flashes Atsumu an easy grin. “Hinata, of course! You’re gonna set for him in future, y’know!”

“He’s very good,” Atsumu replies, and he’s really just stating the obvious at this point. He watches Inunaki usher Shouyou over to the queue for the ticketing machine next to them. Thankfully, there are only two people before them, so it doesn’t seem like it’d take too long. “He mentioned a left-handed spike, didn’t he?”

Shouyou didn’t reveal all of his trump cards on the first day like he suspected, but even then, he’s more than good enough to stand out. Foster had brought Shouyou aside during the break, and even though they had no idea what the discussion entailed, it’s definitely a good sign – not that anyone even doubted Shouyou would be selected after the display of insane agility and jump height. Atsumu doesn’t need to watch his performance for the rest of the week to know he’d be chosen.

Though, whether he would be picked for the starting line-up is another question altogether.

“Yeah, it sounds super cool!” Bokuto exclaims. “I can’t wait to see it in person! We can have a spiking contest!”

“Y’all are gonna break my precious hands,” Atsumu whines, despite the flutter of excitement in his chest when he thinks about setting for Shouyou. He wiggles his fingers in front of Bokuto’s face just to be annoying. “All monsters, the bunch of you!”

Bokuto sandwiches the offending hand between his own, patting it with a good-natured grin before he lets it drop. “But you’re a monster too, Tsum-Tsum! You’ll be fine!” Atsumu opens his mouth to say _no, he really isn’t like them,_ but Bokuto slides a heavy arm over Atsumu’s shoulder and loops it around his neck to tug him closer. Atsumu stumbles slightly with the force, knocking back against Bokuto’s sturdy chest with a curse, but Bokuto’s laughing the stupid loud laugh of his that rumbles deep in his chest. “You can’t break those hands before we represent Japan at the Olympics!”

Bokuto’s probably the only person he knows who can spout sick shit like this without a single malicious bone in his body.

“Some help would be nice, Wan-san!” Atsumu complains when he notices Inunaki and Shouyou approaching from his periphery, a train ticket gripped in Shouyou’s left hand. Bokuto’s not really putting _that_ much strength in his chokehold, but he wheezes out an exaggerated cough anyway, swatting against his arm. “Bokkun wants to torture me!”

Bokuto immediately retracts his arm to rest it on Atsumu’s shoulder instead. “I didn’t even put much strength into it! Maybe you need to lift more weights, Tsum-Tsum!”

Inunaki lifts a challenging brow. “You actually _do_ need to focus on that more, Miya, even if you hate it.”

“I hate all of you,” Atsumu says with feeling, then points to Shouyou, who’s been watching them without uttering a single word. There’s an easy grin slanted across his mouth. “Shouyou-kun is here! Can y’all at least show me some basic respect?!”

Shouyou turns that blinding smile on him, corners of his eyes crinkling. “Isn’t it nice that y’all are so close?” 

“Sure we are,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes and stepping away from Bokuto. He pulls out his phone to check for the train schedule. “Let’s move it already, the train’s arriving in seven.”

🏐

It’s close to nine-thirty by the time they reach Hirakatashi. The streets are quiet at this time, though the roads remain busy with the constant stream of cars and buses. Atsumu laces his fingers together and stretches out his arms, wondering what he should have for breakfast tomorrow. Most shophouses are already closed, and he’s too lazy to take a detour to the convenience store the opposite way down the street.

A particularly loud protest from Bokuto interrupts his train of thought. Bokuto has dragged Inunaki ahead, engaged in a one-sided argument with Inunaki about why owls are the coolest animals in the word, gesticulating wildly to make his point. Atsumu has no idea what Inunaki said in response because the two of them are a few feet away, but it fuelled Bokuto’s passion even more because he raises his volume, making a few passers-by turn to shoot him a glare. 

“Let’s pretend we don’t know them,” Atsumu whispers to Shouyou, who’s matching his leisure pace. 

Shouyou huffs out an easy laugh. “Bokuto-san gets really excited about owls. I heard Akaashi-san gave him an out-of-print encyclopaedia on owls early this year, and he only got to it recently.” He adjusts the strap of his duffel bag which is pressed tightly across his body. “It’s sweet, the way they are, even after they go on separate paths. I’m happy for them!”

Atsumu thinks _sweet_ may be a little weird to use for friends, but he arches a curious brow down the whorl of orange hair. “Isn’t it the same for you with yer Karasuno gang?”

“Uh, it’s not…” Shouyou trails off, and he turns to blink owlishly at him like he’s just realized something for the first time. Atsumu can’t help but feel that he’s missing something here. “I mean, yeah, we are!” Shouyou backpedals without offering an explanation, scratching his nose. “But you can only be so close thousands of miles away. That’s two years’ worth of inside jokes and memories I missed, y’know? I don’t regret my choice to go to Rio, but sometimes I think about how it’d be awesome if I could have it both ways.” There’s a tinge of wistfulness in his voice. “I guess that’s how life is—you just gotta put in gazillion times the effort to really keep everything you want!”

“It’s a worthy trade-off, isn’t it?” Atsumu tilts his head back, puffing out a misty exhale. The clouds are dragging wispy fingers away from the glowing gibbous moon. “Rio obviously did you good.”

“Why should there be a trade-off?” Atsumu turns to look at Shouyou, catching the change in tone. He’s staring at him like he’s only just heard of the concept of a trade-off. “They are both important to me, and I don’t want to give either of them up!”

Even if Shouyou _has_ drifted apart from his friends, the fact that he came back so strong makes it all worth it—though Atsumu probably isn’t the best judge for that, since relationships simply don’t rank highly in his priority list. He has long accepted that he tends to rub people the wrong way, and he’s used to doing things alone when Osamu isn’t around. Aran’s a surprise takeaway from high school, and honestly Atsumu’s half-waiting for him to up and leave one day.

Volleyball’s the only reliable constant he knows, and he feeds off the thrill and satisfaction of the sport with ravenous hunger. He has been living this way for as long as he remembers, but people like Shouyou baffle him, especially since he rivals him in appetite when it comes to volleyball. He seems to want both relationships and volleyball with equal ferocity, and he doesn’t even consider the possibility of ceding one for the other. 

Shouyou’s surprisingly greedy. Atsumu rakes his sharp-eyed gaze over Shouyou’s face, cataloguing the pretty tanned skin, the gentle slope of his nose, and his reddish cheeks from the cold night air. Atsumu has never thought of Shouyou as a _good boy_ , per say, but…

He lifts his eyes to meet Shouyou’s bright-eyed gaze.

“Don’t you think the fact they maintained that connection with you for the past two years means something?” Atsumu offers Shouyou a crooked grin. Atsumu doubts anyone would bother to keep in touch with _him_ if he were in Shouyou’s shoes. “You have all the time in the world to make things better now that you’re back.”

“Y’know, I’ve heard stuff about you back in high school.” Shouyou cocks his head to the side, almost contemplatively. “But I guess they just haven’t talked to you enough.”

“Well,” Atsumu says, loose fists hidden in the pockets of his coat, wondering if Shouyou’d say the same thing if he’d met him three years ago. “I was there to play the best volleyball I could, and they weren’t. Even though I gave them the best sets I could every single time.” Bokuto and Inunaki have stopped near an electronics store, still talking but clearly waiting for them to catch up. “I wasn’t there to be nice and make friends—that’s like, ‘Samu’s shit—it’s not my fault they weren’t as serious about volleyball as I am.”

“That’s probably why some people don’t like you,” Shouyou says matter-of-factly, blinking up at him. Strangely enough, there’s no disapproval or judgement in his tone, and it’s really the only thing that keeps Atsumu from telling him to fuck off, a default response he reserves for situations like this. “But them badmouthing you isn’t very nice either!”

“Most people would say I deserve it,” Atsumu says, tone carefully even, like he’s listing ingredients off Osamu’s onigiri recipes. His personality has toned down over the past three years, more due to circumstances than an actual want, because he has learned through the hard way that in a world full of strong, talented players, he’s someone who’s easily replaceable. 

Shouyou frowns and it looks like he has something to say about that, but the conversation is brought to an abrupt halt because they reach Bokuto and Inunaki, and Bokuto doesn’t waste a single second to latch onto Shouyou, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to pull him to his side.

He points a determined finger at Inunaki. “Tell Wan-san how cool it is that owls eat each other!”

Atsumu stares at Bokuto, nonplussed. He wonders if Bokuto hears the things he says sometimes.

“I don’t think it’s cool,” Shouyou says, looking horrified. “Isn’t that really scary?!”

Inunaki looks bored, but there’s a blasé smile flickering at the edges of his mouth. “There you have it, Bokuto.”

“My number one disciple!” Bokuto wails, crowding behind Shouyou and hunching over to bury his face into his shoulder. “I was counting on you, Hinata!”

“Do you want to get something from the convenience store, Hinata?” Inunaki asks, conveniently ignoring Bokuto and pulling out his phone to check the time. “There’s still another hour before it closes. It’s a slight detour, though. We only thought of it because Bokuto mentioned he ran out of snacks at home.”

To his credit, Shouyou is entirely unfazed as Bokuto continues his theatrical antics on him. “I don’t really mind either way!” Shouyou nudges Bokuto with the shoulder he’s using as a headrest. “Do you want to get anything, Bokuto-san?”

“Yes!” Bokuto perks up immediately, straightening from Shouyou’s shoulder. “I wanna get some cereal for breakfast tomorrow!”

“What about you, Miya?” Inunaki asks. 

Atsumu thinks of a warm shower and his warm bed and decides that he can make do with a berry smoothie for breakfast tomorrow. “Nah, I’ll head back first. Think I wanna finish watchin’ the V League match I’m in the middle of, too.”

Shouyou turns interested eyes on Atsumu. “You have all the recordings of the V League?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies. “I tend to watch whatever I can get my hands on.”

Shouyou’s eyes are practically sparkling now, hands clenched into tight fists in front of his chest and looking like a baby bird who’s about to get its first worm of the day. “Do you mind if I join you next time? It’s hard to find all the matches online!”

“Oh?” Atsumu catches the underlying implication immediately. A smirk slants across Atsumu’s mouth as his eyelids lower by a fraction, the urge to tease him far too strong to resist. “Someone’s feelin’ confident ‘bout the try-out. You still have the rest of the week to go, y’know.”

Surprisingly, Shouyou doesn’t go spluttering red. “I don’t do things by halves, Atsumu-san.” 

His face has shuttered off to a look of quiet calm, eyes predatorily sharp as they lock onto his, and it has Atsumu swallowing around the sudden lump lodged in his throat. It reminds him of the boy he met for the first time six years ago, slamming down the ball in minus-tempo.

“Good,” Atsumu says shortly, and looks away to Inunaki and Bokuto instead. “I will be leaving first. See y’all at practice tomorrow.” 

They wave their goodbyes, and Atsumu separates from them, now alone as he trudges down the direction to the club-leased apartment building. Shouyou has obviously mellowed out with age. There’s a calm confidence imbued in his demeanor that wasn’t there before, back in high school.

An incomprehensible shudder of excitement goes straight down to his toes. 

The next season will be an interesting one.  
  


🏐

The Jackals finished the season brilliantly with a victory against Hornets three-to-one, clinching the championship for the 67th Kurowashiki where Bokuto was named the MVP of the tournament. They didn’t manage to go up against the Adlers this time to avenge their defeat against them the previous year, with Adlers losing the semi-finals match two-to-three against Hornets. He buried his disappointment and worked harder in his gym sessions with Jack as practice came to a stop with the end of the season. 

Atsumu signed his renewal contract with the Black Jackals on a warm, sunny day in May along with most of the main roster. The club didn’t offer one member a contract renewal, and two had confirmed their club transfers near the end of season. They were unsurprising news, considering the rumours that have been going around. The promise of Hinata Shouyou shoved its way to the forefront of his mind with the final flourish of his signature above the dotted line, and his signature’s extended by an accidental inked stroke of his pen. 

The early morning on the last day of May is thankfully at a comfortably cool temperature. Atsumu’s already grouchy enough with the straps of his bulky duffel bags biting into his shoulders on top of the heavy luggage he’s dragging behind him, and he does not need the weather to worsen his mood. He drops off his keys at the office and catches the first train bound for Yodayabashi, piling his bags on his lap before he dozes off to sleep. He wakes up as the train approaches the terminal and fires off a quick text to Osamu to ask him to save him a seat for lunch, then tucks his phone back into his pocket and hefts his bags on his shoulders with a grunt.

The station is deserted as he makes his way to the Midosuji Line, and he waits for nine minutes before the train bound for Esaka arrives. There’s still another transfer he has to make, and he’s starting to reconsider his stupid choice of public transport under these bags. He’s scowling as he alights at the next station, navigating through the passageways to Hanshin Osaka-Umeda station. 

When the train finally arrives after fourteen minutes, his mood is downright foul as he sulkily hauls his luggage behind him into the nearly deserted train cabin, wheels clunking onto the ground noisily. An elderly man seated near the door jolts awake from the commotion, and Atsumu apologizes with a forced blasé smile on his face. He settles down in a seat in the neighbouring cabin and pulls out his phone to call Osamu, because fuck him if he isn’t awake yet; he’s running a business and he should be up by now. 

“What the fuck,” is Osamu’s greeting after nine rings, “it’s only six, what the fuck do you want?”

“Fuckin’ pig,” Atsumu retorts, equally annoyed, as he leans back on his seat and keeps one careful hand on top of his bags. “Aren’tcha openin’ yer store today?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Osamu snaps, sounding like he’d throttle him over the phone if he could, “if you’d bothered to open the family chat, you’d know I’m off today.”

“What’s the occasion? Are yer looks no longer enough to sustain yer business?” Atsumu adjusts the bags stacked on his lap with a frown. “I wanted to eat onigiris.” 

“Fuck off,” Osamu replies, but there’s no heat in it, and he sounds too tired to really care. Atsumu hates that he actually feels a _tiny_ smidge of guilt for waking his brother up. “I can make ‘em for lunch if you stop disturbin’ my sleep.”

Atsumu makes a face even though Osamu can’t see it. “I guess no pickin’ me up then.”

“You should’ve asked at least a day earlier if you wanted me to pick you up.” Atsumu hears the telling click of a door opening on the other end. “Anyway, Mum took the car out to head to the grocery store, I think. Where are you now?”

“I will call a taxi then.” Atsumu glances up to check the electronic display in the train. “I still have three more stops to Ashiya.” He toys with the onigiri keychain on his bag absently. “Mum’s home? Isn’t she on a business trip with Dad?” 

“ _Again_ ,” Osamu says, and Atsumu can hear the eyeroll even over the phone, “if you’d checked the chat, you’d know she was back since two days ago. Dad’s still overseas, though. Will probably be back by Sunday.”

“Oh.” Atsumu lets the keychain drop from his fingers. “All right then.”

“Call Mum and see where she is.” There’s the sound of a faucet running. “She can come pick you up.”

Atsumu hums, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“Okay.” Osamu sighs. “I’m gonna go wash up. See ya later.”

“Sorry for wakin’ ya up,” Atsumu says, and he does mean it. Mostly. “See ya later.”

He hangs up and opens the JVA site to scroll through the latest news until he hears the announcement as the train pulls into Ashiya. Grunting, he slings the bags over his shoulders and tows his luggage behind him, beelining his way to the exit. The morning crowd is starting to trickle in, and it’s only stirring up more anguish under the weight of his bags. With some effort, he pulls his ticket from his pocket and watches the exit machine eat his ticket before he passes through the gate. 

The taxi company sends a cab over ten minutes after his call, and Atsumu’s foul mood is nearly gone by the time the familiar neighborhood with low-rise apartments and detached houses comes to view. Atsumu leans forward to direct the cab for the last stretch of the journey. Eventually, the taxi stops by the sidewalk, in front of a two-storey whitewashed house with a gable roof enclosed by high stone walls. He retrieves his wallet and pays the driver the exact amount in cash before he gets out of the car, pulling the duffel bags onto his shoulders. The driver heads to the back and gets his luggage from the trunk, and Atsumu thanks him before he drags the heavy burden behind him and jabs the doorbell next to the _Miya_ nameplate. 

Osamu doesn’t even bother answering him through the intercom as the sliding gate opens up without preamble. Atsumu wheels his luggage down the short pathway to the door, and his fist is poised for some heavy loanshark-style door banging when the door swings open and Osamu takes his bags from him.

“Jesus,” Osamu mutters, hefting both bags on his shoulders and frowning, “how many dead bodies did ya bring back?”

“You told me one, but I decided to be a good brother and bring back two for you,” Atsumu replies, brushing past him and kicking off his shoes at the genkan to switch to his home slippers, already laid out for him below the ledge. Well, Osamu _can_ be nice if he tries.

“Real nice,” Osamu says dryly, going straight for the stairs. 

Atsumu slams the door shut behind him before he follows Osamu upstairs, taking his luggage by hand and careful not to leave marks on the hardwood floor. The last time he did that he couldn’t hear the end of it for a week. 

“Where’s Mum?” Atsumu asks, as they reach his room and Osamu dumps his bags by his bedroom door with a grunt. He sets his luggage down beside the bags. “Still out?”

“Should be back soon,” Osamu says, padding out of his room, “I’m makin’ breakfast. Come down and eat later.”

Atsumu makes a sound of acknowledgement as he squats down by his bags to get a fresh change of clothes. He manages to wash off the exhaustion and irritation from waking up at four in the morning, and he’s humming a random melody by the time he heads down the stairs for breakfast. 

“Atsumu!” Their mother smiles as she folds the newspaper up, long black hair tied back into a neat bun as always. Atsumu continues towelling his hair as he makes his way to the dining table where their mother is seated. “You’re back! Why didn’t you tell me so I can go pick you up at the station?”

“I _told_ him to,” Osamu mutters, loud enough for both of them to hear, as he dumps the frying pan into the sink. 

“It’s okay, Mum.” Atsumu takes the seat adjacent to hers, still drying his hair with his towel. “I called a cab.”

Breakfast’s already set on the table: stir-fried pork with ginger, chilled tofu, miso soup, and a steaming bowl of rice. He had expected plain toast as revenge for waking him up so early this morning, but Osamu’s being more forgiving than he expected. He licks his lips in anticipation as the fragrance of miso and ginger wafts to his nose, the gnawing at his belly more prominent now. 

“It’d have been on the way for me,” their mother says, frowning. She pushes the folded newspaper to the side of the table as Osamu settles in the seat opposite Atsumu. The three of them chorus their _Itadakimasu_ ’s, Osamu and Atsumu picking up their chopsticks only after their mother does so. “Thank you for breakfast, Osamu.” 

Atsumu eagerly digs into the pork slices. The meat is tender but firm, nicely seasoned with soy sauce, and the subtle kick of ginger refreshes his palate. He sighs happily as he scoops up some rice to his mouth. “This is good, ‘Samu!”

“This is simple stuff,” Osamu says, but Atsumu spots the small satisfied quirk of his mouth anyway. “I wonder how ya keep yerself alive when you’re not leechin’ off me.”

“No, no, it’s really delicious,” their mother agrees. “It’s good you started the restaurant.”

“Business really picked up in the fourth quarter last year.” Osamu takes some pork slices from the plate. “I’m thinkin’ of openin’ up a branch in Tokyo in the next two or three years, once things stabilize and I save enough money.”

“You don’t have to wait.” Their mother sets her chopsticks down. “Yer father and I can invest in it as individual shareholders.” 

“It’s fine, Mum,” Osamu replies, and from the tone of his voice Atsumu can tell he regrets bringing it up in front of her already. He holds back a snort as he takes a sip of his miso soup. Osamu really never learns. “Dad already loaned me money for the restaurant. I want to start the Tokyo branch on my own.”

“We are not offering because we are your parents,” their mother says patiently, switching from the Kansai dialect she usually uses at home to standard Japanese. Atsumu mixes the pork slices in with his rice and wonders how long it’d take for the disagreement to be settled this time. “This is a lucrative investment opportunity. You have a business degree—you should know that investing in a new business has the potential for outsized returns compared to larger and more mature companies.” Their mother pushes up her glasses. “The food is delicious, there’s an increasing number of return customers, and you have a growing social media presence. Plus, having a pro volleyball player as your twin is going to help plenty with free publicity.” 

If Atsumu can’t tell how on-edge Osamu is, he’d probably pull a face at him or do something equally obnoxious to get on his nerves. He dumps the last few pieces of pork and chilled tofu into his rice, stirring them together in the bowl. Maybe he can escape upstairs after he’s done eating.

“I don’t need or want the help.” Atsumu doesn’t need to look up from his food to see the frown on Osamu’s face. He lifts his bowl to his lips, shovelling the evenly mixed rice into his mouth using his chopsticks. “I want to do this on my own as much as possible, Mum.”

“If it makes you feel better, we can invest it under the company’s name,” their mother says, “your dad and I have been considering setting up a VC firm actually.”

“That’s even worse.” Osamu isn’t even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “I will ask you or Dad for input when I need it. I don’t need help beyond that.”

Atsumu sets down his now empty bowl with a sigh. “Why don’t y’all talk about it when Dad’s back?” Atsumu looks between the two of them. “Where’s Dad at, anyway?”

The two of them continue their staring contest, and after a moment, Atsumu clears his throat and repeats his question. Their mother exhales, turning to him with a wry smile. The tension from Osamu’s stiff shoulders eases a little.

“California.” Their mother picks up her glass of water for a sip. “We are done with the acquisition deal though. He’s just meetin’ Dan to catch up.”

Atsumu nods his head. About time. “At least that one’s finally settled after six months.” 

“Uncle Dan?” Osamu splits his chilled tofu with his chopsticks. “The one with the gay son?”

Their mother levels a deadpan look on Osamu, but Osamu arches a brow in return, undaunted. “Yes,” she finally relents. “Yer father tells you too many things. Just like how Dan should have kept it to himself.”

“I think it’s okay.” Osamu shrugs his shoulders before he digs into his rice. “They have been business partners for years. Dan probably treats Dad like a friend already.” 

“It’s been months since he told us,” Atsumu says, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his chopsticks. “Why are you so bothered by it?”

“Yeah, why?” Osamu pulls a face at their mother. “Are you homophobic?”

Their mother hushes him with a frown. “I’m not. It’s just not right. You can’t have a family if you are…” She trails off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter to me how other people’s children are. As long as mine are normal.” 

Atsumu bristles at the way she says _normal_ , like he’s eight again and she’s telling him boys don’t cry barely two minutes into the call, or when he was ten and showing off his art piece through a glitchy network connection but she told him the sky should be coloured blue and not purple. “Normal?” 

Both of Osamu’s brows are raised now. “Yeah, yeah, what do you mean by normal?” 

“Bein’ together with the opposite sex. Havin’ children with yer partner. They are normal and natural things.” Their mother scoops up a clump of rice with her chopsticks. “I think social media isn’t helpin’ kids. They spread a lot of misconceptions.”

"You sound like someone I know," Atsumu says, thinking about Akihiko and the way he had talked about the Canadian volleyball player in the office when he'd been there to help Meian deliver the travel forms. "And I don't mean it as a compliment."

"I think that person has 'bout the right idea, then," she says, smiling, like this entire conversation is amusing to her. 

“That’s _not_ right,” Atsumu says, throat tight. Nothing more comes to his mind, and he's slowly realizing he has nothing more to say other than, _that's not right._ It's something that leaves a bitter taste at the back of his tongue.

“Yeah!” Osamu clinks his chopsticks against his bowl. Atsumu looks up from his bowl to see Osamu frowning at their mother. “You need to change that mindset, Mum.”

“It’s still unnatural,” their mother says, as she drops a chunk of tofu onto her spoon. “But like I said, I don’t care about other people. As long as both of you like girls, the other kids can be happy however they like.”

Atsumu clenches his jaw, grip tightening around his chopsticks. “That’s not right,” he repeats, this time louder, unable to rein in the irritation that seeps into his voice. 

“What? Why are you so upset for?” Their mother arches a brow. “You are normal, right?”

“Why are ya askin’ it like that?” Osamu asks. 

“All right.” Their mother looks even more amused now. A blasé smile curves her lips. It looks downright condescending, like she’s deigning to entertain two kids who don’t understand how life works. Atsumu inhales sharply through his nose, shoulders set stiff. “How else should I phrase it?”

“I don’t know, actually,” Osamu says, looking done with the conversation as he pulls his bowl of miso soup closer to himself. He shoots Atsumu a look that says _let it go_. “But whatever, I’m straight.”

Their mother reaches over to rest a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu barely suppresses the urge to flinch away from her touch. “And you, Atsumu?” She tilts her head to the side, the mocking smile still on her face. “Are you straight?”

Her question sinks under Atsumu’s skin like thousands and thousands of tiny beetles, their sharp pincers nipping and scratching against the marrow of his bones. He stares back into her dark expectant eyes, breath stuck in his throat.

“… ‘Tsumu?”

“Yeah, I’m straight,” Atsumu says, forcing the words from his throat, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He pushes her hand away from his shoulder, irrationally disgusted by her touch. “Whatever.”

🏐

It’s near the end of August when Atsumu gets to move back into the apartment building, and he relishes in the long-awaited freedom of his own space. He falls into the old but welcomed routine of working out, watching games, and dropping by Bokuto’s place for unhealthy take-outs—or get to eat homecooked food, if Akaashi happens to be there. 

By the time Atsumu’s done with his usual run after the session at the gym, it’s a little over ten. The ends of his towel are tucked under the front of his singlet as he steps into the supermarket, the strong gust of air-conditioning a cool welcome on his sweat-slick skin. 

The store is much quieter and less crowded at this hour, with only a handful of people scattered about the aisles. Atsumu makes a beeline for the meat section, stopping in front of the rows of packaged meat to look over his options. 

Chicken breast sounds good for dinner tonight. He wonders if he has any miso left.

“Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu removes the cheaper option from the shelf and dumps it into his basket before he turns. His stomach flips, in a way not different from seeing a strong spike from the opposing team, when he sees Shouyou walking over from the neighbouring meat section. He’s dressed in a grey sleeveless hoodie and baggy drawstring pants, and his hair is noticeably longer from back in March, fringe hanging right above his eyes. He’s holding onto a basket in his left hand, and his veins are prominent and straining against his skin under the weight of his basket that’s nearly filled to the brim. 

Atsumu spots two cartons of Meiji milk peeking out from the pile of vegetables and fruits. “Grocery shopping?” 

“Yup! I just moved in last night and I’m stocking up my fridge,” Shouyou replies, stepping in closer and bumping their baskets together. Atsumu switches the basket from his right hand to the left. Shouyou’s eyes linger on the towel around his neck before he looks away, dropping his basket on the ground and leaning towards the shelves to consider his options. “Are you just finished with a run?”

“Yeah.” The sweat has evaporated to a sheen of sticky residue thanks to the air-conditioning. He can’t wait for a warm bath after this. Shouyou picks up the more expensive brand of chicken breast and is now studying it with his brows furrowed. “When did you move into the apartment?”

Shouyou returns the sealed tray and plucks another one off the shelf. “Just yesterday,” he says distractedly, turning the package around in his hands. Apparently deciding that one’s good enough, he drops it into his basket and bends down to look at the row for ground meat. “Bokuto-san and Akaashi-san helped me with it since they were free.”

“They behave like an old couple sometimes, don’t they,” Atsumu remarks offhandedly. He catches the quirk of Shouyou’s lips like he’s heard something vaguely amusing. “I bumped into them when I checked in earlier this week and they invited me for dinner that night. I was horrified when I thought Bokkun was the one who’d be cookin’.” He makes a face even though Shouyou’s not looking at him, busy comparing the sealed packages of meat. “Thank God it was Keiji-kun.”

Shouyou laughs. “Akaashi-san has been trying to teach Bokuto-san how to cook. I think they are missing a guinea pig.” He looks up then, flashing him a lopsided grin, before he turns back to add the ground meat to his basket. He straightens from his squat. “What else are you getting?” 

“Only miso left, I think,” Atsumu replies. He watches as Shouyou lifts his filled basket with little effort, arm muscles flexing under his skin. It’s definitely heavy as fuck, considering the two-litre cartons of Meiji milk he spotted just now, but Shouyou makes it look like he’s simply picking up a volleyball on the court. “Do ya have anythin’ else to get?”

“Nope, I’m done!” 

Shouyou doesn’t bid him farewell though, following Atsumu to the aisle for condiments. He chatters excitedly about how amazingly close the apartment is to nearly everything, and how he has to bike everywhere back in Rio because the stores weren’t located within walking distance. 

Atsumu nods at appropriate intervals as he picks up his usual brand of miso and turns it over to check for the expiry date. 

“That reminds me! Are there any good running routes around? I asked Bokuto-san, but he usually runs on the treadmill, and he says I should ask you instead!”

“There’s one I usually take,” Atsumu says, placing the miso into his basket. He begins walking towards the checkout counter, Shouyou falling into step next to him. “It’s not exactly ideal, but you only have to stop for the traffic lights twice.”

“That sounds good enough!” Shouyou says, turning hopeful eyes on him. “Do you think you can point out the route to me later if it’s convenient for you?”

“Hm,” Atsumu slants a considering look at Shouyou, “what time do you usually run?”

“In the mornings after I’m done with meditation!” Shouyou _meditates?_ Atsumu wouldn’t put the two together in one sentence, but he supposes Shouyou’s newfound tranquility concealed under his spirited demeanor has to be cultivated somewhere. “So probably about six?”

“We can go for a run tomorrow at six. I will show you the route,” Atsumu says, even though he usually doesn’t go for runs that early. Shouyou’s smile widens to a nearly blinding grin as he beams up at him. “You don’t really do long distance, right? It’s gonna be yer first practice with the team tomorrow, and I don’t want you wearin’ yerself out.”

“No, I just like to start off my day with a little warm-up!” They reach the self-checkout machines, and Atsumu goes first because he only has two items. “Thank you so much for helping me out, Atsumu-san!”

“It’s nothin’. We live in the same buildin’ anyway.” Atsumu rips the receipt from the machine after he’s done with the payment and moves to the side for Shouyou’s turn. It will probably take a few minutes at least, so Atsumu pulls out his phone to open up JVA’s page while waiting for him to be done.

The beeping sound of the scanner continues for a while before Shouyou asks, “Which level are you living on, Atsumu-san?”

“Seventh,” he replies, scrolling through the article on the Asian Games. “I live on the same floor as Thomas. What about ya?”

“I stay on the tenth floor!” Atsumu finishes skimming the article and slips his phone back into his pocket, turning his full attention back to Shouyou. Shouyou’s making a face as he swipes his card on the reader to make his payment. “I know Bokuto-san lives on the eighth. Too bad we didn’t get to be on the same floor. I thought we would be great neighbours!”

Atsumu doesn’t want to imagine the chaos they would cause if they had ended up on the same level. At least their manager has the foresight not to put them together, coincidence or not. 

“It’s just a few flights of stairs down to find Bokkun. Not much of a difference,” Atsumu says. Shouyou pulls two reusable bags out of nowhere and begins dumping his scanned items into it. “Omi-kun—Sakusa—lives on the same level as Bokkun, too, if you wanna talk to him.”

“Sakusa-san?!” Shouyou turns his head, eyes alight with adoring admiration, before he goes back to splitting his groceries evenly between the bags. “I can’t wait to meet him properly! He’s amazing!”

Atsumu laughs. “Make sure to show that enthusiasm to Omi-kun tomorrow!” The muscles bunch under Shouyou’s honey-brown skin when he hefts a bag of groceries on one shoulder and wraps his fingers around the handle of another. “He may put on a grouchy face, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate some unbridled enthusiasm for his skill and talent.” 

Sakusa will _hate_ it with that trademark grimace twisted on his face, and Atsumu can’t wait to see it. 

They make their way through the streets of Hirakata, and he’s thankful it’s early September and the weather’s a lot more forgiving compared to when it was back in March. He’s only dressed in his singlet and running shorts, and it’d be embarrassing if he starts sneezing and sniffing like a _weak city boy_ again in front of Shouyou.

“I washed your scarf already, by the way,” Atsumu says, reminded of Shouyou’s scarf that’s folded neatly in his wardrobe. It had slipped his mind the entire week Shouyou was there. The combination of intense practice sessions and the pressure of winning the Kurowashiki had made it difficult to think about anything other than volleyball. “I will pass it to you after our run tomorrow. Sorry I forgot to return it to you the week you were here. I told Bokkun to let you know, but he didn’t update me afterwards.”

“I told Bokuto-san it’s okay since I don’t really need it and it isn’t the only one I have.” Shouyou adjusts the strap of the reusable bag on his shoulder. “The weather’s warm now anyway, so it’s fine!”

“I still need to return it to you either way.” Atsumu flicks a glance down at the bags Shouyou’s carrying. “Need any help with that?”

“Nope!” Shouyou pops the ‘p’ cutely, blinking up at him with a small smile. He lifts the bag held in his hand like he’s doing bicep curls, flexing his prominent arm muscles, green veins straining against his skin. “It’s strength training! Every little bit counts, y’know!”

Atsumu resists the strange urge to skate his fingers across Shouyou’s tanned arms, to see if they feel as solid as they look. He tears his lingering gaze away, fixing his eyes on the apartment building that’s coming to view. “What’s next? Climbin’ up the stairs to the tenth floor?” 

“How do you know?!”

Atsumu slants a disbelieving look over at Shouyou. “Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

“Yeah, I am!” Shouyou confirms it with an enthusiastic nod that has his hair flopping over his eyes. He shakes his fringe away like an overgrown puppy. “It’s good exercise!”

Atsumu feels his features twisting to a grimace. What a menace. “I hate climbin’ the stairs.”

“Aw,” Shouyou says, deflating slightly. “I thought I could get you to do it with me!”

“What, first runnin’ and now this?” Atsumu grins down at Shouyou. “I thought Bokkun’s yer favorite, but I guess I’m replacin’ him, huh?”

“I don’t have a favourite!” Shouyou declares as they reach the entrance of the building. “Everyone is amazing in their own ways! But I respect Bokuto-san loads and loads because he’s my mentor!”

“That’s the same as not sayin’ anythin’ at all,” Atsumu says, pulling the glass door open for Shouyou to go first. “You’re the type who says everyone’s good and everyone’s beautiful, arentcha? What will you do if yer girlfriend asks you if she’s the prettiest next time? Say everyone’s pretty in their own ways?”

An odd look crosses Shouyou’s face as he steps past him into the building. The glass door swings shut behind him as he catches up with Shouyou in two long strides, sneaking a surreptitious glance at his face. The expression is gone, and Atsumu wonders if he had imagined it in the first place.

“I won’t get a girlfriend,” Shouyou replies, half a beat late, his reusable bag knocking against the side of Atsumu’s calf when they stop at the lift lobby. Atsumu jabs the button for the lift. “I’m too busy with volleyball now and I don’t have the time to date! But if I do date someone…” He runs his hand through his hair, brows furrowed. “I will love my partner the way I love volleyball! Every action, every word, and every moment I spend with my partner will be proof of my dedication and feelings! My feelings for my partner cannot be judged by a single question!” 

The unexpected earnestness of Shouyou’s answer catches him off-guard, and he arches a questioning brow down at Shouyou. “How is it possible to love two things so intensely at the same time, brat? It’s one or the other!”

“Why should I give anything up?” Shouyou looks genuinely confused, the frown deepening between his brows. “Both are important to me, so I wouldn’t let go of either one of them!”

Atsumu’s saved from having to respond when the lift dings its arrival at the ground level. 

“I will see you tomorrow then, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou declares cheerily, like they were just discussing which brand of knee pads they prefer, and promptly bounds off to the stairwell after a jaunty wave. 

Atsumu stares after his disappearing backview up the flight of stairs, a strange tightness around his throat. He shakes the foreign emotion off after a moment, enters the empty lift, and presses the number eight on the panel. 

🏐

Atsumu’s pleasantly surprised to learn that Shouyou doesn’t chatter like Bokuto when he runs. He ran with Bokuto once—just once—and made the gross discovery through the worst way possible that Bokuto’s the type who talks your ear off _and_ pesters you for replies while going at 21 miles per hour, the fucking lunatic. Both Bokuto and him never brought up the topic of running together again, which is just as well since Bokuto prefers running on the treadmill anyway. 

Unsurprisingly, Shouyou has excellent stamina, keeping up with Atsumu’s set pace without trouble. At this point, Atsumu’s pretty convinced there’s nothing Shouyou can’t do, as long as he sets his mind to it. Next thing he knows, Shouyou will be setting a perfect overhand for him to slam down a winning point. 

He’s shoving his canister of berry smoothie into his sports bag when his phone vibrates on the table, and he zips his bag up before he snatches his phone off the table. There are five new notifications from LINE, four of which comes from the group chat for the main starting roster, with Meian pointedly directing his messages at Bokuto making sure he’s awake and not snoozing his alarms again. Atsumu snickers and tags Sakusa in his message, offering him as tribute to serve as Bokuto’s human alarm. Meian will definitely take his side on this one. Sakusa will probably give him shit for this later on, but Atsumu can’t find it in himself to care. 

He opens the other group chat with all of the current Jackals members and sees that Shouyou and two other people he doesn’t recognize have been added to the group by Meian. There’s a cheerful message from Meian asking everyone to welcome the new members. Atsumu’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, thinking, then exits the app without typing a word. 

He slings his bag over his shoulder and grabs the folded scarf on the table, looping it around the strap of his bag. It’s ten past seven now, and dropping by Shouyou’s shouldn’t take too long since he’s only two floors above him. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, reaching Shouyou’s in less than a minute. 

Shouyou's eyes widen slightly in surprise when he sees him. “Atsumu-san!”

“I’m technically yer neighbour, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, untying the scarf from his bag strap, “there’s no need to be so shocked.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Atsumu-san! I just didn’t expect you!” Shouyou’s eyes drop to the scarf Atsumu’s holding in his hand. “I told you there was no rush.”

“It’s fine, you’re literally only two floors above.” Atsumu passes the scarf to Shouyou, taking in the Jackals training attire he’s already decked in. “Kinda looks a bit like Karasuno, eh.”

The corners of Shouyou’s mouth curve slightly. “I know right!” He abruptly lowers himself into a crouch, lifting his right arm to flex the solid bulk of his muscles. The sleeves of his jersey pull tautly around his biceps, and the fabric of his shorts stretches around one of the _thickest_ pairs of muscular thighs he has ever seen. “I’m all grown up now, though!” A large expectant smile stretches across Shouyou’s lips, eyes crinkling into crescent moons as a cute dimple surfaces on his left cheek. “Aren’t I?!” 

No one does _that_ as a response to an off-handed remark—it’s fucking ridiculous, really, and he should be laughing by now—but Atsumu’s mouth is dry and there’s heat creeping up his neck. He averts his eyes to focus on a random spot behind Shouyou. “Of course you’re grown up,” he says, licking the back of his teeth, “it’s been years.”

Shouyou beams, straightening from his crouch. “Wanna come in?” He tilts his head to the inside of the apartment. “I will be ready to leave in five! I just need to fill up my bottle!”

“Nah, I will wait outside for ya,” Atsumu says, pulling out his phone to check for the time. The Jackal Arena is fifteen minutes away, but if they brisk-walk over they should be able to get there by seven-thirty. 

“Okay, I will be back in a few!” 

Once Shouyou darts back into the main room, Atsumu peers curiously past the agape door. It looks similar to his own apartment, the slight step-up from the genkan leading to a short entrance hall which ends with a second door left ajar by Shouyou just now. 

He returns his attention to his phone, dragging down his notifications. There are twenty-one new notifications, and he clears the notifications for the general Jackals chat before he opens the one with the regular starters, sniggering when he sees Sakusa’s annoyed response to his mention. Meian predictably backs him up, and as much as Sakusa hates being Bokuto’s personal alarm clock, Atsumu knows Sakusa respects Meian too much to go against him. The newest messages are from Bokuto sent two minutes ago, with obnoxious emojis and full capitalizations for every word to announce he just woke up. 

“What’s so funny?” 

Atsumu startles mid-message, both his arms jerking back in surprise as his phone slips from his fingers. A strangled noise tears from his throat, and he nearly trips over his own feet when he scrambles forward to save his phone before it hits the ground.

Shouyou throws his head back and laughs, a deep pleasant timbre that flushes Atsumu’s cheeks with unwanted heat. 

“ _Stop laughing_!” Atsumu can’t help whining as he straightens and deletes his message draft before he slides his phone back into his pocket. Shouyou’s still fucking grinning as he switches his slippers out for a pair of Kobes. “Hey! It’s not that funny!”

Atsumu’s still directing his best scowl at Shouyou’s back as he steps out and locks the door. “Sorry, Atsumu-san, but that’s super funny!” 

“You’re so mean!” Atsumu complains as they head towards the lift, the warmth from his cheeks thankfully receding. Shouyou’s laughter has now subsided to intermittent snickers, but it’s not an improvement in Atsumu’s book. “Stop it!”

“Y’know, I thought you were gonna be this big, scary setter,” Shouyou says brightly as he presses the button for the lift, “but turns out you are really funny, aren’t you!”

“Ugh, _no_ ,” Atsumu moans despairingly at being called _funny_ in this particular context, “I’m one of the best setters in our generation! I do not deserve this treatment!”

“It was a compliment, Atsumu-san!” 

The lift arrives then, and Atsumu snaps his mouth shut and opts for sulking the entire way to practice instead. Shouyou prods his arm while piling him with empty reassurances that he’s funny in _the bestest sense of the word!!,_ and Atsumu has no idea what Shouyou even means by that, but he doesn’t think he wants to know anyway. 

Practice starts with a round of mandatory self-introductions, which is as dull as Atsumu remembers. There are only three new additions to the team this season, including Shouyou: one of them is a kid named Masato Higuchi, a middle blocker who looks at least six-foot-three, and the other is Kyogo Fujita, who had played as Komiya’s setter in Waseda.

Kyogo Fujita is a kid with the hairstyle of a typical salaryman, neatly trimmed and not a single strand out of place, and he stands at ramrod attention with his hands clasped behind his back like they were in the military while sneaking what he probably thought were surreptitious glances at Atsumu. 

“Kyogo-kun looks like a seven-year-old literature major who stepped into the bookstore and found his favourite candy,” Inunaki says, as he drops down next to Atsumu for the warm-ups. Thomas trails after him like a puppy on leash as usual even though he’s a year older, greeting Atsumu with a peppy, “Good morning, Atsumu!”, before he takes the space next to Inunaki and begins his stretches. “He’s gonna get a shock when he discovers how nasty you are.”

“Where do you even find a seven-year-old who majors in literature.” Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Don’t you do anything.” 

“Of course I won’t,” Inunaki replies with an air of deceitful naivety, grinning, before he turns to Thomas to ask about his flight and his one-week vacation back in Spain with his family. 

Atsumu clucks his tongue and bends forward to resume his stretches. Bokuto’s voice from the distance has him lifting his head to flick a curious glance over. Bokuto’s bounding away from Shouyou and making their way towards them, cartwheeling his arm in enthusiastic greeting. Shouyou’s left behind, sitting fucking _seiza-_ style in front of Sakusa, who’s occupying the usual space by the side of the gymnasium for warm-ups. Shouyou’s head bobs up and down with whatever he’s saying, looking very much like a baby chick trying to befriend a grumpy raven, and Atsumu swallows the rising amusement at the back of his throat as he re-focuses on his own stretches. 

Shouyou will fit into the team just fine. 

🏐

They are predictably pushed hard at practice after the long break. 

By the time they are done with the last team drill for the second segment of practice, he can feel his jersey clinging onto his back, and a familiar, delicious burn has sunk into his muscles. They are sent off for a three-minutes break before the scrimmage, and no one talks as they gulp down the water from their bottles and wipe sweat off their faces with the sleeves of their shirts.

Foster and Akihiko look like they are in deep discussion with Meian, and then Meian suddenly turns, eyes searching across the gymnasium, before his gaze lands on him. “ _Come here,_ ” he mouths.

Atsumu leaves his bottle by the wall and jogs over to where the coaches and Meian are, lifting a questioning brow when he reaches them.

“I will put Hinata and Kyogo together today,” Foster starts without preamble in fluent Japanese, “and you will be on the opposing team with Meian, Miya.” 

Atsumu barely manages to rein in the disappointment in his voice. “Yes, Coach.”

“Let me know what you think of Kyogo after this, Miya,” Foster says, tapping his pen against his clipboard. “He has a good amount of potential, and he has worked with demanding players like Komiya. We might use him for the upcoming V League. It’d be good for him to get some experience in the professional league.”

Atsumu nods his head in agreement. Seems like they intend to test out some variations in the upcoming tournament and he’ll be losing some game time, but that’s natural. It’d be good growth for the team. 

“Watch for the left-handed spike from Hinata,” Foster tells both of them, then looks pointedly at Meian, “especially you, Meian. I want to know the perspective from a blocker.” Meian inclines his head slightly. “Also, I want you two to keep an eye on Hinata’s form when he sets. Tell me how it looks from the other side of the net.” 

Atsumu’s having trouble wrapping his head around the last part of Foster’s instructions. Shouyou has _never_ mentioned that to him. 

“Hinata did a few emergency sets during the try-out,” Akihiko explains, scratching the stubble at his chin. “They looked good, just like the clips he sent us. But we want to see it again and determine how workable that is in games.”

“Okay,” Atsumu replies, still reeling from the news that Shouyou can _set_. How good has he gotten, exactly? What kind of spartan training did the brat put himself through in Rio?

From the videos he found with a tedious use of Google Translate because the titles are either in English or Portuguese, he knows Shouyou’s a reliable setter in beach volleyball. Beach setting is very different from indoor setting, though, with its known strictness on double contact faults and its leniency for longer releases. Shouyou mostly falls back on bump sets from the few videos he could find, and he tends to deep dish the ball when doing overhand sets. If that habit carries over to indoors, he’d be called for lifts. But if the coaches say his sets look good… 

He flexes his fingers as he considers the possibilities, anticipation stirring in his veins.

🏐

Atsumu’s the first to serve in his current placement. Higuchi and Kodama are in the back row with him, assuming positions 5 and 6 respectively. He doesn’t know how the new kid will perform, but Kodama at least provides reliable defense with his well-honed game sense over the past decade on the team. They don’t have _the_ golden combination, of course, with the main starters all spread out across the teams, but he has Meian and Sakusa in the front row along with Hisahira, an outside hitter who transferred into the team two years ago, and their line-up is as good as it can get. 

Atsumu sweeps appraising eyes over the opposing court. Kunihiro and Hiroki take their positions in the front zone with Kyogo, both experienced players who display consistently good offense in games, though Hiroki tends to favour his left knee when a match drags on. He avoids looking at the pair of them for too long, still not completely over the guilt of his fuck-up from three years back. Bokuto and Thomas are placed in the back zone with Shouyou, opening up the possibility of quick back row attacks. 

All of this depends on how Kyogo intends to use his hitters, too. And there’s Shouyou with his sets and left-handed spike… 

He spins the ball in his hands, taking a deep breath to clear his thoughts. _One, two, three._ A steady exhale. _Four, five, six._ He leaps off the ground, palm making solid contact with the ball, and aims it deep at the sideline of the opposing court. 

Shouyou lunges forward with his right foot, bumping it up cleanly in the air. _Nice._ The corners of Atsumu’s mouth curve in keen satisfaction as he moves behind the attack line. Kyogo side-steps to connect with the ball, body shifting perpendicular to the net as he arches backward, tossing the ball behind his shoulders right where the hitters are waiting. Kunihiro’s right in position, slamming the ball down for a deep cross. 

“One touch!” Meian shouts, ball tipping past his fingers. 

Atsumu swiftly slides to the front of Kodama, cushioning and stopping the spin of the ball with his fingers, before he flicks his wrists straight for a quick set to Sakusa. Sakusa’s already in the air, the ball curving beautifully into the centre of his palm at the apex of his jump, before he slams it down with a flexible snap of his wrist.

Pride swells at the centre of his chest at the powerful hit Sakusa scored off his set, and a smirk slides across his mouth as his gaze lands on Shouyou across the court. Shouyou has his eyes fixed on him, an eerie focus washing over his expression as he lowers himself back into position. Atsumu dips his head slightly as form of a mocking bow before he returns behind the endline without waiting for a response.

He hits a jump float this time, and Bokuto digs it, but the angle is thankfully wrong and the ball ricochets off to the side.

He catches another ball thrown from the sidelines. Atsumu blows out a heavy breath as he bounces the ball on the ground, then takes six steps forward and hits a jump serve. It goes a little too low, bouncing off the net and falling into the opposing court. Kunihiro dives to the ground, the ball rebounding off his hand and going back up. _Fuck._ Atsumu darts forward into the defense position, keeping his eyes on the ball. 

Kyoga sprints to place, setting the ball over to Shouyou in a surprise move instead of Hiroki in the front zone. “Hinata-san!”

Shouyou soars high right behind the attack line, swinging his arm back and slamming the ball down between Kodama and Higuchi before they can even react. Atsumu barely reins in the grin that tugs at the corners of his lips, adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

Bokuto’s loud praises can vaguely be heard as they shift clockwise for their rotation, Kyogo receiving the ball from Akihiko and assuming position 1 in the back zone. Atsumu lowers himself into place, wiping the sweat dripping from his forehead with his sleeve. Kyogo’s serve is nothing to scoff at either, aiming for the nasty spot between him and Kodama. 

“Mine!” Kodama yells out for the ball, widening his stance and getting it cleanly into the air.

Atsumu darts forward, jump setting the ball neatly over to Hisahira, who hits a powerful spike off it. Kyogo flings himself forward to save the ball, sending it back up as he stumbles onto the ground and breaks his fall by his hands. 

The pass falls short but Shouyou reacts immediately by sliding sideways to match the trajectory of the ball. It happens in slow motion for Atsumu, Shouyou bending his knees and dipping back into graceful arch as he sends the ball to the back zone. _Damn._ The ball leaves his hands: a quiet, beautiful emergency set. Goosebumps prickle over the entirety of Atsumu’s forearms. Bokuto leaps into the air with a splitting grin, whipping his arm forward to slam a sharp line shot at the edge of the endline, the ball rebounding off the court and towards the ceiling.

Atsumu realizes he’s staring when Shouyou straightens from his posture and catches his eye. A slow smirk slants across Shouyou’s mouth as he tilts his head back, the fluorescent lights of the gymnasium reflecting off the predatory glint of his dark brown eyes. Atsumu’s heart stutters in his chest, and he quickly wrenches his gaze away from Shouyou. 

It’s _too_ different now, facing Shouyou again on the court five years later. It’s not just about how he can pull off impressive emergency sets or how his sharp, powerful spikes are on an entirely different level. 

Shouyou’s like a feral beast clothed in human skin on court, and Atsumu’s strangely entranced by the possibility that he might be swallowed whole if he steps in any closer. 

🏐

Everyone is gone by the time Atsumu’s dismissed from the meeting with Foster and Akihiko, and he cheekily salutes Meian behind them to wish him luck when he gets asked to stay behind. Meian doesn’t make any visible reaction to him because he’s still facing the coaches, but Atsumu’s pretty sure he’d have rolled his eyes at him if he could. He jogs over to grab his bottle before he leaves the gymnasium, fanning himself with the collar of his jersey. He can’t wait to hit the showers and go back to bed for a quick nap before his usual workout routine in the gym.

When he opens the door to the locker room, he doesn’t expect to find Shouyou seated on the bench, scrolling on his phone with a dent between his brows. He looks freshly showered with his damp orange curls hanging loosely in front of his eyes, dressed in a white hoodie and black track pants. 

“Shouyou-kun?” 

Shouyou perks up, lifting his head from his phone. “Atsumu-san!” 

“Why are you still here?” Atsumu asks, as he types in his passcode and swings the locker door open. The stench of sweat always lingers in the locker room after practice, and he doesn’t know anyone who’d willing put themselves through this. “Are you waitin’ for someone? I thought you already spoke to the coaches just now.”

“I’m waiting for you!” Shouyou replies. “Bokuto-san wants to have lunch together!” Atsumu drapes his towel over his shoulder before turning to face Shouyou. “He also asked Higuchi-kun and Kyogo-kun along, but Higuchi-kun couldn’t make it. They went on ahead to get a table for us.”

Atsumu thinks about the warm bed back in his apartment and the additional hour of sleep he can get if he skips out on this. Shouyou’s bright, hopeful expression remains in his periphery, however, and he sighs with an air of resignation. Bokuto would hound him if he doesn’t turn up, anyway. 

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Atsumu says, eventually, sweeping his sweaty hair back with a grimace. He feels all sticky and gross. “Go ahead and join them first. I will find y’all later.” 

“I wanna wait for you!” Shouyou grins. “Just go on and bathe, Atsumu-san!”

“The locker room stinks though,” Atsumu points out, wrinkling his nose. “Are you sure you wanna wait here?”

“It doesn’t really bother me.” Shouyou shrugs. “Don’t worry about it!”

Atsumu wonders if people who come back from Brazil have stronger noses. He turns to pull out a fresh change of clothes and his toiletries, rolling them into a bundle in one hand, then reaches further in his locker to grab his deodorant. 

When he walks past Shouyou on the way to the door, he places the deodorant can beside him. Shouyou looks up from his phone in surprise, then drops his gaze back to the deodorant. 

“I don’t know how you’re okay with the smell,” Atsumu says, making a face, “but use that if it gets unbearable.”

For some inexplicable reason, Shouyou’s staring at the deodorant like he’s seeing it for the first time. 

“… You _do_ know how to use it, right?”

Shouyou flushes red. “Of course I do, Atsumu-san!”

The laughter tumbles freely from his lips as he leaves the room, feeling more refreshed than when he entered. 

He scrubs himself clean of sweat from his hair and skin in the showers before he throws on the fresh change of clothes. He towels his hair as he makes his way back to the locker room, opening the door to see Meian digging through his locker, in the middle of a conversation with Shouyou about his left-handed spike. He notes, with thinly-veiled amusement, that Shouyou’s sitting with perfect posture on the bench, hands clasped rigidly on his lap.

“Shouyou-kun, you aren’t talkin’ to yer father-in-law,” Atsumu teases as he steps into the room. 

Shouyou snaps his head to him immediately, his still-damp hair flopping in front of his eyes. He brushes the hair away from his eyes and grins brightly at him. “You’re done!”

“Yeah.” Atsumu can’t help but ruffle Shouyou’s hair when he passes by him, the faint scent of his deodorant lingering in the air. It’s still slightly wet to touch, and he catches a few locks of orange-brown hair in his hand. “You should learn how to properly dry your hair.” He flicks his gaze downwards to see Shouyou staring up at him through his lashes, all traces of smile gone from his face and a faint pink dusting his cheeks. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and he abruptly drops his hand and heads for his locker. “And relax, Meian-san’s not gonna gobble ya up.”

“Yeah, just treat me like an older brother, Hinata-kun,” Meian says, as Atsumu swings his locker door open and dumps his toiletries in it. “Anyway, your left-handed spike’s good now. After you work on what the coaches told you, I’m sure it’ll become even more impressive.”

“He’s a true daddy material, isn’t he?” Atsumu jokes lightly as he shoves his dirty clothes into a ziplock. He feels something soft hit the back of his head a second later and manages a laugh, despite the strange knot resting at the pit of his stomach. “Are ya joinin’ us for lunch, Meian-san?” He turns and bends down to pick up the offending object, holding the black jersey warily between his index finger and thumb. “I sincerely hope this is clean.”

“It is, unfortunately,” Meian says, rolling his eyes and gesturing for Atsumu to throw it back to him. “And no, you kids go ahead. I will be heading home straight. Think I’m gonna make dinner for my wife. She’s been really stressed about work lately.”

“The model husband!” Atsumu exclaims, bundling the shirt up in his hand and flinging it back to Meian. He catches it easily with one hand. “Just like Oliver! No wonder you two are such good friends!”

Meian levels a deadpan look on him before he returns his attention to his locker. 

“How’s his wife, by the way?” Atsumu asks. “She doin’ okay now?”

“Yeah, he should return to practice by the end of this week,” Meian replies. “The baby’s safe, too. Really got to him, though.”

Atsumu can’t imagine Oliver panicking at all. He’s always the goofy adult, joking around with them and going along with their antics even though Meian shoots him the worst death glares. “Scary. Can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

“You will know once you get married.” Meian chuckles, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Who will be the unlucky girl to end up with you, I wonder.” He shakes his head as he slams the locker door shut. “What do you think, Hinata-kun?”

“Huh?” Shouyou replies reflexively, like he’s been caught off-guard. Atsumu zips his sports bag close and slides his gaze over to Shouyou. “Uh, well, I think whoever Atsumu-san ends up with is gonna be very lucky!”

“Look!” Atsumu exclaims, pointing to Shouyou but fixing his eyes on Meian. He plasters a triumphant smile on his face. “It’s _lucky_ for whoever ends up with me! I _do_ have a fanclub, y’know!”

“Hinata-kun’s too nice,” Meian says flatly, walking to the door. “The longest record a girl could put up with him was, what—” He pauses for a moment and frowns. “—three months? I think I’m being generous with my estimation.”

Atsumu huffs as he slips his arms into the sleeves of the black Jackals windbreaker. “C’mon, captain! I was busy with volleyball!”

“If she was important enough, you wouldn’t be too busy to spend time with her,” Meian says, twisting the doorknob open, “anyway go have fun, kids, and _please_ behave yourselves. I don’t want to see any surprise publicity stunts online.”

“Of course not!” Atsumu exclaims. He pulls the strap of his bag over his head and shuts his locker. “What do you take us for!”

“ _You_ are one of the troublemakers,” Meian mutters, holding the door open and waving them out of the door, “hurry and get out already.”

“Thank you, Meian-san!” Shouyou chirps, bowing to Meian and darting out of the door.

Atsumu quickly follows after retrieving his deodorant from the bench, and Meian locks the locker room behind them before they all head out for the exit.

“Did you drive today, Meian-san?” Atsumu pipes up after a few minutes of silence.

“ _Oooh_. You have a car, Meian-san?!” Shouyou looks extremely awed at the prospect, eyes practically sparkling as he looks at Meian like he’s grown a third arm at the centre of his chest to do a fucking middle-handed spike or something. 

Meian slants an amused look at Shouyou. “Yes, I do have a car.” He lifts his eyes to Atsumu, the amused expression still lingering on his face. “And no, I didn’t drive today, so I can’t drive y’all to lunch. Sorry.”

Atsumu sighs. “Damn.”

“That’s so… adult-ish!” Shouyou has his hands in tight fists in front of his chest, and Atsumu’s learning that he does that whenever he’s very excited about something. “Owning a car is a very adult thing!” 

“We are all adults here,” Atsumu points out. 

“But you don’t drive!” Shouyou eyes him curiously. “Do you?”

Meian barks out a laugh, patting Shouyou on the shoulder. “Please don’t give him ideas, Hinata-kun. It’d be a hassle to plan ahead to avoid the roads he’s driving on.”

“I do have a car!” Granted, it’s not _his_ per say, but he doesn’t need one now anyway. “I can drive too! I just choose not to!” Atsumu huffs, picking up his pace so he gets to the exit first, mostly because he’s done with the conversation and he doesn’t want to hear Meian embarrassing him any further. He holds the door open for them when they reach him, and they go on their separate ways, with Meian _finally,_ thankfully, leaving for the train station.

“I told Bokuto-san we will be heading over now. He sent me the location,” Shouyou says, holding out his phone for Atsumu. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Is it the yakiniku restaurant?” Atsumu bends down slightly at his waist and squints at the screen for a moment. “Yup, I’ve been there. It’s a twenty minutes’ walk.” He straightens his back and begins heading up the stairs that leads to the main road, Shouyou keeping pace beside him.

They turn into the long stretch of pavement alongside the main road. It’s narrower than the usual width that comfortably fits two people, so he lengthens his strides to lead the way, leaving Shouyou trailing behind him. He pulls out his phone to text Bokuto, checking if they have gotten a seat yet because it tends to get crowded during lunch hours with office workers on their lunch break. While waiting for his reply, he pulls up Japan Times on his browser, skipping straight to the sports section. 

“Atsumu-san!” Shouyou calls out to him when he’s in the middle of his second article, and Atsumu turns his head to see Shouyou sliding his phone into his pocket as he grins widely at him. “What do you think of my sets just now?” He quickens his pace to fall into line beside Atsumu, their arms brushing against each other with every step. “If you don’t mind sharing your thoughts, I mean. I wanna know how I can improve!” 

Shouyou doesn’t seem to care that the footpath is obviously not meant for two people to comfortably walk side-by-side like this, his left arm pressing against Atsumu’s right as he looks up at him with a hopeful expression on his face. He smells stupidly good like the other day, _especially_ so, when he catches a whiff of the familiar scent of his deodorant clinging onto him. He doesn’t really know what to make of that, except that this brat really has no sense of personal space.

He clears his throat, pulling his right arm away to unzip his sports bag. “Not on my level, of course.” 

“Of course not!” Shouyou replies earnestly, eyes flashing determinedly as he nods his head. “I’m not a setter after all. I just wanna know how reliable my emergency sets are.”

“Yer sets were mostly quiet, which is good.” Atsumu manages to tug his bottle out from his bag. “But you tend to tip yer hands a little too early. The blockers will read you if you don’t fix that habit. You need to have the same hand position regardless of where you’re setting from.” He shrugs. “But you’re ultimately an attacker first and foremost. Focus on increasin’ the power of yer hits for now, and work on settin’ when you have time.”

“Got it!”

“You can always watch more matches to get a feel of what I’m sayin’.” Atsumu takes a gulp of his water, turning his face slightly to catch Shouyou staring. “Ya want some water?” He tilts his bottle towards him. 

Shouyou flushes slightly, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing!”

Atsumu shoves his bottle back into this bag and lets his arm fall back between them. “Anyway, I’ll be watchin’ the V League videos tonight. Wanna come?”

“What? Really?” Shouyou perks up, and it’s then Atsumu notices the tuft of bright orange that sticks out at the top of his head, now that his hair is no longer damp. He looks like an excitable pup. “Are you sure?!”

Atsumu smothers his laughter with a cough, amused at Shouyou’s eager enthusiasm at anything volleyball related. “Yeah, why else would I ask?”

“Awesome!” Shouyou brushes his fringe away from his eyes. “Wanna have dinner together after we are done at the gym?”

“Yes to dinner, no to the gym,” Atsumu says, “I’ll leave early to head back for a nap, so I will just hit the gym myself.”

“You should’ve said you were tired!” Shouyou tilts his head back to study his face, brows pushing together. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have dragged you along with me.”

“No one can make me do anything I don’t wanna. And besides,” Atsumu drawls, flicking his eyes downwards to meet Shouyou’s bright-eyed gaze, “this is probably Bokkun’s idea of a welcome lunch for ya. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He looks away and adjusts the strap of his bag. “I can get take-out sushi for dinner or something.”

Shouyou shakes his head while making a face, his cowlick swaying left and right with the movement. “I’ll cook and you can come to my place! We are already eating out for lunch, so we shouldn’t eat out again. It’s unhealthy!”

Atsumu reaches out to flatten the cowlick down on Shouyou’s head without thinking about it, and his hair is surprisingly soft under the pads of his fingers, with how he was a first-hand witness to its abuse a while back. He lowers his eyes to look at Shouyou, smirk slanting across his mouth. “What, are ya gonna poison me?”

“I’m _not_ gonna poison you!” Shouyou protests, face flushed red as he knocks Atsumu’s hand away from his hair. Atsumu throws his head back and laughs, letting his hand fall back between them. “I cooked for myself plenty in Rio. Even Oikawa-san says my cooking is good!”

Atsumu arches his brow. Ah. That guy he heard about. “The Seijou setter.” 

“Yes, Oikawa-san’s _amazing_!” Shouyou grins. “He’s super cool, and his sets always feel so good to hit! He gave me very useful tips for setting. I’m super lucky to meet him in Rio!”

For some reason, the way he’s talking about Oikawa sits wrong under his skin. It’s irrational, a part of him realizes, especially since Bokuto has pulled something similar before, going all quiet and saying, “ _Ah, I miss Akaashi’s sets”_ but the most he had felt back then was a spike of amusement before he asked him to fuck off to Tokyo. There’s no such thing as an exclusive partner in volleyball — that’d be one of the stupidest things he’s ever heard really — but there’s still a small knot of _something_ at the centre of his chest that demands to be unravelled. 

“Oh.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “How do my sets feel to you, then?”

“Oikawa-san and you are very different setters,” Shouyou says, scratching his nose. “But even from the short match just now, I know you are an awesome setter, Atsumu-san! I mean, I always knew you’re one of the best—I watched all your games, y’know! You are…” He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, considering, then releases it. “You really take care of your spikers.”

“That’s gross,” Atsumu says immediately, face scrunching up more as a reflex than anything else because the mere thought of him being considerate to people is disgusting and impossible. “I don’t _take care_ of people.”

“You do!” Shouyou insists, and he’s leaning into his space again, the entire length of his arm pressing warmly against Atsumu’s. “I think it’s incredible, Atsumu-san. It’s not something anyone can do!” Atsumu’s breath hitches in his throat when Shouyou wraps his hand around his wrist. His fingers are resting right where his racing pulse is as he looks up at him with earnest brown eyes. “Don’t you think?”

“… I am incredible, naturally,” Atsumu says, hating how his voice comes out slightly breathless. He presses down on the cowlick that’s somehow sticking back up again, pushing Shouyou away and watching him stumble back slightly with a small burst of private satisfaction. “Brat.”

“Hey!” Shouyou reaches to pat down his hair with his hands, scowling at him. “What’s with you and my hair?!”

He’s thankfully sticking to his side of the pavement this time as he fusses over his hair.

“Yer hair…” Atsumu makes a half-assed gesture with his hands. “It’s not stayin’ down.”

“It has a life of its own!” Shouyou jabs a finger to the tuft of hair, looking ridiculously proud of it for some reason. “And it only appears sometimes! Stop bullying it!”

It’s as useful as Osamu telling him, _don’t touch my pudding_ , or _stop stealing my socks_ , because he’ll still do it anyway as long as he feels like it. Aran once asked when he’ll grow out of his rebellious streak of doing things just because he’s specifically told _not_ to, and Atsumu was mildly entertained by how off the mark he is. He does things simply because _he_ feels like it. It’s pure coincidence that people don’t like what he does. 

“Sure,” Atsumu drawls, and it must have looked as sincere as he meant it to be because it sets Shouyou off on a rant as he valiantly defends his hair the remainder of the journey to the yakiniku restaurant. Atsumu interjects with occasional attempts to grab the cowlick, amused by Shouyou’s ninja manoeuvres to duck out of his reach as he scowls at him. 

Atsumu only remembers to check his phone when they pass by the petrol station with the restaurant just across the street, pulling down the notifications tab to see nine unread messages from Bokuto. 

“Bokkun’s _really_ hungry,” Atsumu says, tapping out a quick reply to Bokuto, “he says he’s about to die.”

“They must have been waiting for too long!” Shouyou says as Atsumu slides his phone into his pocket, “are we reaching soon?”

“It’s just across the pedestrian crossin’,” Atsumu answers, pointing up ahead. “Don’t worry about it, they won’t really die.”

“Cool!” Shouyou adjusts his bag so it rests snugly against his back, suddenly picking up in pace. Atsumu instinctively follows, lengthening his strides to keep up with Shouyou. He opens his mouth to tell him to slow down a bit when Shouyou throws him a bright grin over his shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Race you?”

There’s an odd twinge at his chest as he stares mutely at Shouyou, and it’s the only warning he gets before Shouyou abruptly takes off for the pedestrian crossing. 

Atsumu’s body springs to action before his brain even fully comprehends what’s happening, both of them sprinting across the pedestrian crossing the next second. They dash past a salaryman who turns to shoot them a scandalized look, but Atsumu’s laughing too much to care, neck-to-neck with Shouyou, caught up in the adrenaline that rushes up to his head. 

“You fuckin’ _cheat_ ,” Atsumu wheezes, as they swerve into the parking lot in front of the restaurant, “you started before I did!”

“I did _not_!” Shouyou yells back, and there’s a sudden burst in speed as he overtakes Atsumu, pleasant timbre laughter trailing behind him. 

Atsumu bares his teeth as a surge of primitive competitiveness courses through his veins, and he forces his aching legs to keep up with Shouyou, soles of his shoes pushing against the flat concrete ground with every stride. They slam their hands against the door handle of the restaurant to mark the finishing line, the glass door shaking slightly with the combined impact, both of them folded over at their waists to catch their breaths at the entrance. 

“I win,” Shouyou says breathlessly, one hand resting on his bent knee.

“You did not,” Atsumu retorts, just as short of breath. “I reached here first!”

“You—”

Shouyou’s protest is cut short when the door pulls open inwards, and the two of them nearly stumble face-first into the restaurant in their surprise. 

“Are you two done making a fool out of yourselves?” Inunaki asks, arching a brow with his arms crossed at his chest, one foot at the door to keep it from slamming into their faces. “We can see your stupid race even from the inside.”

Atsumu pulls a face at him before he straightens and dusts off the imaginary dirt from his windbreaker. He brushes past Inunaki to see the people at one of the tables near the door staring back at them with varying looks of amusement, and he scowls at them despite the heat rising up his ears. They shake their heads before returning their attention to their food. Atsumu’s held back by the scruff of his windbreaker before he can do anything about it, Inunaki dragging him to the opposite direction as he leads them deeper into the restaurant.

Atsumu manages to shrug off Inunaki’s grip as they go past the counter, Inunaki shaking his head at the server who offers to take them to their seats. 

“I’m not a kid,” Atsumu grouses, but Inunaki pretends he doesn’t hear him as he ushers Shouyou forward so he’s keeping pace beside him. 

They head towards the inner section of the restaurant on the first level, where the upholstered restaurant booths are lined up against the transparent window panes looking right across the street. 

The booth is meant to comfortably fit six people, but Bokuto and Thomas already occupy one side of it with a conspicuous empty space between them. Across them sits Kyogo alone by the window, engaged in a private conversation with Thomas as Bokuto happily wolfs down the meat. 

Bokuto looks up from skewering his meat with his chopsticks, greeting them brightly when they reach the table. “Tsum-Tsum! Hinata!” He drops his chopsticks on the plate with a loud clatter and stands, letting Inunaki take the place beside Thomas. 

“Hurry and sit! The meat’s all here!” Bokuto gestures to the empty space beside Kyogo and plops back to the outside seat again. 

Atsumu drops his bag into one of the empty baskets by the booth along with Shouyou, then slides into the seat next to Kyogo. Shouyou’s excitement is practically radiating off him in waves as he settles into his seat and begins gushing to Bokuto about his love for meat, gesticulating wildly to make his point. Bokuto heartily agrees with vigorous nods of his head, and Atsumu’s slightly surprised when Bokuto picks up a cooked piece of meat from his plate and places it on Shouyou’s. He must have underestimated how close they are. 

“Did y’all walk over here?” Inunaki asks, and Atsumu turns his attention to him as he flips a slab of meat over on the grill. Atsumu’s nose is filled with the thick smell of grilled meat and soy sauce, and he swallows his saliva as he nods his head in reply. “Should’ve taken a bus.” 

Atsumu shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just a bit of light exercise.” 

His stomach growls while he eyes the slices of meat cooking on the grill. Some already look a delicious shade of brown. 

Inunaki takes a browned piece from the grill with a pair of tongs and dumps it on Atsumu’s plate.

“Thank you,” Atsumu says, pulling out a pair of chopsticks from the wooden holder. He snaps it into half and glances around. “Omi-kun isn’t here?”

“He made a face when we said we are having yakiniku,” Inunaki says, laughing and using his chopsticks to lift a generous portion of greens from the big plate of salad between them. It’s not hard to imagine Sakusa’s expression at all, when he shoots that look at Atsumu half the time. “Bokuto tried to convince him, but even he has his limits.” 

Atsumu snorts. “Should’ve guessed. I can’t imagine Omi-kun sittin’ here with us.”

Inunaki shakes his head, then retrieves a piece of cooked meat from the grill and calls for Shouyou. “Pass me your plate, Hinata.”

Shouyou’s eyes widen as he waves his hands to decline the offer. “Oh, no, it’s okay!”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Don’t be too polite or yer portion’s gonna be all gone.” He uses his chopsticks to scoop two slabs of cooked meat from their shared grill, dropping them on Shouyou’s empty plate. “There’s Bokkun here, y’know. He’s gonna eat everything without you realizin’.”

“I will not!” Bokuto protests, waving his chopsticks at Atsumu.

Atsumu sighs, lacking the energy to properly argue with Bokuto at the moment. “Sure, sure.”

“Thank you, Atsumu-san!!” Shouyou says, and Atsumu hums his acknowledgement as he reaches over for the plate of pork belly strips near the edge of the table. 

“Aw, Hinata awakening your paternal instincts?” Inunaki croons. Atsumu manages to squeeze one last slice of meat in the available space on the grill, then looks up to catch Inunaki darting his eyes over to Kyogo. “What about the other one?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, then complies, placing some meat on Kyogo’s plate and catching him by surprise.

“Thank you, Atsumu-san!” Kyogo sounds way too enthusiastic when he only just gave him a few pieces of meat. He coughs awkwardly, not used to the unbridled show of adoration. Inunaki looks like he’s hiding his snickers behind his hand. “You’re one of my favourite setters! I really look up to you!”

Atsumu can feel his face growing hot now, but he can’t help preening anyway. “Thanks! I know I’m good.”

“Miya,” Inunaki says, warningly, then hides it with a cough. Atsumu picks up on the silent laughter in his voice, though. He’s definitely having a kick out of this. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing some tips with you.”

“I’d be grateful for any tips at all!” Kyogo perks up in his seat, eyes sparkling. “You were Inarizaki’s captain in your third year, too, right? That’s incredible! You must have been a great captain!” Kyogo beams at him, still with the same starry-eyed look. 

Atsumu’s grip tightens around his chopsticks, and he knows the appropriate response should be to thank him for his compliment, but he suddenly feels like a fraud. 

He’s reminded of the times Osamu and Aran had pulled him aside when he just became captain, and a deadweight settles in his chest. On top of the shit he was given for his callous attitude, he was often accused of forgetting his position as a captain because he was being too much of a setter—whatever the fuck that means. It’s ridiculous because Atsumu _never_ wanted to be captain, yet they talked about it like it was something he asked for. He only cares about being the best possible setter for his hitters—there’s space for little else in his brand of volleyball. 

But when Kita looked at him with those steely, unwavering eyes and told him _I know you can do it_ , the rejection on the tip of his tongue had turned into an, ‘ _okay, I will do it’_. It’s stupid how much power Kita unknowingly wielded over him back then. The title of a captain was like the uncomfortable kneepads he forced himself into when he first started volleyball, and no one but him knew the immense relief he felt when he finally graduated and left it behind. If Aran and Osamu weren’t there… 

“Miya?” Inunaki’s amused expression has shifted into one of concern, and Atsumu realizes he’s been quiet for a beat too long, and immediately tries to fumble for an excuse.

A soft, fleeting touch on his thigh snaps him out of it, and he turns just as Shouyou leans over from his seat, the nice familiar scent washing over his nose. Shouyou’s arm rests lightly against his, a warm weight that’s surprisingly welcome as the discomfort slowly dislodges itself from his chest. Shouyou’s not looking at him though: his eyes are fixed on Kyogo, a wide smile on his face. “I thought I heard something about setting?!”

“Yup!” Kyogo nods his head enthusiastically, and thankfully doesn’t mention his captaincy again. “I wanted to ask Atsumu-san some tips about setting!”

“Did you know Akihiko played setter before?” Shouyou asks brightly. Kyogo shakes his head, but he’s listening with rapt attention, mouth forming a small ‘o’ of surprise. “He played on the national team twice before he became a coach! He’s super, super good! I asked him some stuff on setting after practice just now, and he was really helpful!”

Kyogo looks awed. _This kid, really…_ “Really?”

“Yup! You should try asking him some stuff tomorrow if you wanna!” Shouyou tilts his head to the side, grin widening. “I really like your sets just now, by the way! They felt really nice to hit!! It was like _gwaah_ and _bowoooow_ , and then I’m already hitting it down!”

“Thank you so much, Hinata-san!” Kyogo flushes pink, obviously pleased with the earnest praise that Shouyou handed out like free candy. Atsumu’s slightly put-out Shouyou hadn’t complimented him like that, and pushes the meat around on his plate with his chopsticks. “I really enjoyed setting for you, too, Hinata-san! I hope I have more opportunities to do so in future! You are amazing to watch!”

“Hinata’s amazing, isn’t he?!” Bokuto says proudly, picking up the tongs to scoop up more cooked meat on his plate. “He’s my number one disciple!”

“All right, all right,” Atsumu intervenes, pushing his body between Kyogo and Shouyou who have been talking like he hasn’t been seated there the whole time. “Hurry and eat, or the meat’s gonna be all gone,” he tells Shouyou, pointedly jerking his chin over to Bokuto who’s happily unloading the last plate of meat on the grill. Shouyou makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat and leans back to his seat, shouting for Bokuto to leave some for him. 

Atsumu shakes his head and returns his attention to the food. He can feel Inunaki’s eyes on him as he sips on his tea. “What.” Atsumu flips the slabs of meat over on the grill, scrunching up his nose. “What do you want.”

“Nothing,” Inunaki hums, replacing the cup on the table. He takes a browned piece of meat from the grill and reaches over to drop it on Atsumu’s plate. “Here you go, princess.” Atsumu doesn’t understand what’s up with Inunaki, but dips the meat in the house sauce and shoves it into his mouth anyway. The cut is tender, coated in modest spicy flavour and a mellow sweetness, with a slight hint of smoke. “Hinata seems really nice.”

Atsumu piles more meat on his plate with the tongs before he passes it to Bokuto, who’s been eyeing it with his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips. They’d probably need to order another lunch set at the rate everyone’s going. “Yeah, of course.” Atsumu arches a brow. “Is anyone _not_ nice around here?”

“You,” Inunaki replies without missing a beat, and Atsumu pulls a face at him. Bokuto takes most of the meat from the grill at lightning speed, dumping some of it on Shouyou’s plate as well. “Hinata seems good for Bokuto.” His eyes glimmer with private amusement as his innocent trademark smile slides into place. “Might turn out good for you, too.”

“Ah, the evil look,” Thomas exclaims, as he stretches across to reach for the tongs. Atsumu frowns at Inunaki, still not sure what he’s getting at. “Wan-san’s evil look!”

Kyogo looks confused. “Inunaki-san seems so nice though!” 

Thomas chuckles, shaking his head. Inunaki jostles him in the ribs, but Thomas doesn’t flinch even the slightest bit, only clearing off the grill by dumping the remaining few pieces of meat on Inunaki’s and Kyogo’s plates with a broad smile on his face. 

The three of them fall into a conversation in English that Atsumu can barely keep up with, and he focuses on stuffing his mouth with meat instead. It makes sense why Thomas was talking to him so much when he doesn’t have much confidence in his Japanese, even though the team has told him repeatedly that he sounds fine. 

Shouyou’s hand moves from his periphery, grabbing the tongs resting on the plate and picking up the last platter of meat. He waves the tongs in between laying the slices of meat on the grill and telling a captivated Bokuto about kids and beach volleyball with his cheeks stuffed full, looking impressively similar to an excited quokka. Shouyou catches his eye just then, flashing a bright grin at him before he turns back to the conversation with Bokuto as he carefully replaces the now empty platter on the table. _Definitely_ a quokka. He turns back to his plate and dips his meat into the house sauce.

“Miya,” Inunaki says, catching Atsumu mid-chew, and he looks up from his plate. “How’s your progress with English?”

“You’re learning English, Atsumu-san?” Shouyou asks curiously. 

Bokuto frowns as he skewers two pieces of meat on his chopsticks. “English is so hard!”

“Japanese is harder,” Thomas says ruefully in Japanese. Inunaki pats him on the shoulder and reassures him that his Japanese is perfectly understandable. Kyogo enthusiastically agrees, nodding his head vigorously. 

“I gave up on it a while back,” Atsumu admits honestly, picking up the pair of tongs to check on the meat. He got the motivation to pick up the language again while he was suffering through Google Translate looking for Shouyou’s beach volleyball videos, but it did not last as long as he thought it would. Learning a new language is hard without discipline, and he lacks that in spades for anything outside of volleyball. 

“It’s not that hard if you have someone to practice with!” Shouyou picks up some vegetables from the salad and places them on his plate. “I can practice with you, if you want!”

“I tried that with Bokuto and Miya,” Inunaki says, “Bokuto gave up one week later. Miya lasted for a month.”

Atsumu juts out his bottom lip petulantly. “I will try again soon.” He uses the tongs to flip the meat over. “This batch is done. I think we should order another platter.” 

“More meat!” Bokuto brightens, gesturing towards the call button that’s located on Thomas’ side of the table. Thomas laughs and presses the call button. “We should order two more platters!”

“I’m not super good at the language, but if you’d like to start somewhere you can look for me and I’ll try my best to help!” Shouyou offers between mouthfuls of rice. “Bokuto-san, too!”

“Hinata might be nicer than Wan-san,” Bokuto says, chewing thoughtfully, and looking blissfully unaware of the deadpan look that Inunaki is levelling on him. “I might take you up on that offer!”

“Where did you learn English, Hinata-san?” Kyogo asks curiously, leaning forward to look at Shouyou properly.

“I was in Brazil for two years! I worked really hard on English and Portuguese there. I also picked up a bit of Spanish!” Shouyou dips his last piece of meat into the house sauce. “I heard that Thomas is from Spain? Is it actually pronounced as _Tomás_?”

The way Shouyou said his name sounds different from how they have been pronouncing it the past two years. He licks the back of his teeth. How does Shouyou make a single name sound like… _that_?

“Yes!” Thomas looks pleasantly surprised, grinning widely. “I stuck to Thomas because it seemed easier to pronounce.” 

He slips into English then, and Atsumu can only catch words like “Rio”, “coach”, and “volleyball”. Shouyou replies with equal enthusiasm, foreign syllables rolling off his tongue smoothly, and Atsumu doesn’t realize he’s staring until Inunaki clears his throat loudly from across him. The three of them turn to Inunaki, who tilts his head to the server waiting by the table.

“I asked,” Inunaki says, patting Bokuto’s shoulder as he vibrates in his seat, looking like he’s about to ricochet off Earth if they don’t place their orders soon, “if any of you have any preferences.”

“Nope,” Atsumu replies, pulling his phone out to check the time. “Y’all order whatever. I need to go soon, anyway.”

The rest weigh in on the options for meat, and they end up ordering three more platters with Bokuto’s reassurance that he has coupons from Akaashi to offset part of the bill. Not for the first time, Atsumu thanks Akaashi in his head for his resourcefulness. The rest of lunch duration is spent fighting over meat, and the afternoon lethargy begins to set in by the time he has his fill. 

Atsumu dumps some bills on the table for his share as the rest choruses their goodbyes, and he edges out of the booth after Shouyou gets up from his seat to let him pass. He grabs his bag from the basket and slings it over his shoulder, and is surprised to find Shouyou still standing by the booth when he turns. Shouyou’s hand is a loose fist around his chopsticks as it hangs between his lips, a contemplative look on his face. There’s a grain of rice stuck at the corner of his mouth. 

Atsumu hooks his fingers on the strap of his sports bag. “…Yes?”

Shouyou pulls the chopsticks from his lips. “Do you have anything you’re allergic to? Or anything you don’t like to eat?”

“I don’t like mushrooms,” Atsumu replies, his eyes trained on the grain of rice that Shouyou doesn’t seem to notice is on his face. “Are ya seriously gonna cook?”

“Yup!” Shouyou grins widely at him. Atsumu doesn’t think he can unsee the quokka image any time soon, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair for absolutely no reason at all. “You won’t be disappointed!”

His eyes draw into a half-lidded gaze, a smirk slanting across his mouth. “Okay. Surprise me then, Shouyou-kun.” He brushes his thumb at the corner of his mouth, not bothering to rein in the teasing lilt that slips into his voice as he continues, “Might want to get that off before ya start cookin’, though.”

Shouyou blinks owlishly at him before his hand mirrors the action, and he flushes red when his finger catches the grain of rice stuck at the side of his lips. “You could’ve said so sooner!”

“Wanted to see how long it’d take you to notice it,” Atsumu says, throwing his head back and laughing. “See ya later!” 

The smile lingers at the corners of his mouth as he steps out of the restaurant and makes his way to the nearest bus-stop. The textbook Kita gave him last year when he heard he’s learning English is probably still sitting somewhere under his pile of sports and fashion magazines. He turns the thought over in his head, and decides he can probably make some time this weekend to try pick up English again. 

He has an enthusiastic teacher living two floors above him now, anyway.

🏐

It’s half past seven by the time Atsumu’s freshly showered after his gym session. He packs his laptop and charger into his bag, remembering to add an extra pack of tissues in case Shouyou has his air-conditioner turned on, before he retrieves his phone from the table. There’s a new message from Shouyou sent a few minutes ago that says, _let me know when you’re coming! dinner’s ready!!_ Atsumu taps out a quick reply to let him know he’s on his way up, then switches to the front camera to check his hair, running his fingers through his fringe to sweep it more to the right. When he’s finally satisfied with how his hair looks, he slides his phone into his pocket and makes his way up to Shouyou’s apartment.

Shouyou opens the door after two knocks, dressed in a ridiculous yellow shirt that has a picture of raw meat printed in the middle of it and a pair of drawstring shorts that reaches his knees.

“You’re here!” Shouyou greets him brightly, gesturing him in. “You can change into the slippers there.”

Atsumu switches to the slippers prepared at the entrance as Shouyou pushes the door close. “I made something I picked up in Brazil!” He leads Atsumu down the short hallway to the main room. For some reason, Atsumu thought he’d see green potted plants decorating the sides of the hallway, but it’s surprisingly barren like his own. “It’s one of my favourite dishes!”

“What’s the dish?” Atsumu asks. 

“It’s chicken breast, but it’s maple-glazed!” Shouyou waves his hand vaguely to the main room. “Take a seat, Atsumu-san! I will go bring out the food!”

He bustles off to the kitchen, and Atsumu steps into the main room, casting a curious glance around as he sets his bag down against the wall. The layout is similar to his own: a low rectangular table sits in the middle of the room with a few cushions stacked neatly by the side, and there’s a stand fan turning its head with soft whirls of its blades at the corner. A two-seater is situated against the wall a few feet behind the table. The yellowing air-conditioner mounted on the wall is turned off, and the windows are left wide open with the curtains billowing lightly with the night breeze. 

Atsumu arches a brow when he spots a bookshelf at the other corner of the room with several photo frames propped on top of it, filled with rows and rows of books.

A reader, huh. Shouyou didn’t seem like one. Then again, Atsumu’s starting to realize that Shouyou’s a lot more than he looks, and it’s a piece of knowledge he doesn’t yet know what to do with. Before he can move towards the shelf to snoop through the titles, though, Shouyou’s back into the room, setting down the tray of food down on the table.

As Shouyou removes the dishes from the tray, Atsumu grabs two cushions from the pile and places them on the floor at opposite sides of the table. He drops his ass down on one cushion as Shouyou takes a seat in another. Beside the usual bowl of rice and miso soup, the chicken dish is especially colourful. The fillets look perfectly cooked, their skin golden with brown crispy edges, mixed with a generous portion of broccoli, corn kernels, and sliced carrots.

They put their hands together and say their thanks for the meal.

As Shouyou picks up his chopsticks, Atsumu peers down at the glazed surface of the chicken curiously, poking it with the tip of his chopsticks. “Is that really maple syrup?” 

“Yup! I added a bit of seasoning though,” Shouyou replies brightly, taking one hearty bite of the chicken. “Let me know what you think!”

The chicken is tender, and the maple glaze gives it a sweet, tangy flavour. It’s _delicious_ , and it doesn’t taste as weird as he thought it’d be. Osamu would be excited to learn of this if he hasn’t already heard of it. He looks up from his plate to meet Shouyou’s expectant gaze. “It’s really good!”

Shouyou beams at him. “I’m glad! I learned that recipe in Brazil while I was looking for new ways to cook my proteins.” He pops a piece of carrot into his mouth. “You seemed like you’d like sweet stuff!”

“Why?” Atsumu grins, then lifts a huge clump of rice to his mouth. “Because I look like a sweet guy?”

“No,” Shouyou answers, unexpectedly honest, as he levels an assessing look on Atsumu. “You look like you broke plenty of hearts, actually.” A few grains of rice go down the wrong pipe, and Atsumu hacks out a few violent coughs, eyes watering a little. “Atsumu-san! Are you okay? Do you need some water?”

“I’m fine, I don’t need water,” Atsumu manages to choke out, waving his hand no. He clears his throat once more for good measure, then swallows a huge mouthful of miso soup. Once the warm liquid washes soothingly down his throat, he sets the bowl down and shoots an offended look in Shouyou’s direction. “What did I ever do to give that impression?!”

“Ah, I don’t mean it that way,” Shouyou says, and there’s a lopsided grin sliding across his mouth. He lowers his eyes to his plate, picking up a piece of carrot with his chopsticks. “You are a handsome and talented athlete! I’m sure many people think you’re a good catch.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says. “You think I’m handsome?”

“Well.” 

Shouyou lifts his head, eyes raking shamelessly over every inch of his face. Atsumu feels laid bare under his scrutiny, stripped down to his skin, and there’s unwanted heat creeping up his neck. His eyes skitter away to focus on the spot above Shouyou’s head, hands itching to cover his face. “Say what ya wanna say and stop lookin’ at me like that!”

“Yes.” A slow smile unfurls across Shouyou’s lips, and Atsumu has to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. Shouyou’s eyes are bright and earnest. “You are very handsome.”

He’s so… fucking _shameless_ , saying things like that while looking so unabashedly honest. It’s definitely not the first time Atsumu has received compliments for his looks—he has seen incoherent comments left by his fans under his social media posts, and he’s used to the backhanded compliments from his Inarizaki teammates—but Shouyou’s not a stranger, and he’s not saying it to make a jab at his nasty personality. He states it as a fact, voice dipping a decibel lower, and there’s a glint in Shouyou’s eyes that makes the warm flush from his neck rise rapidly to his cheeks.

“You—” Atsumu’s voice comes out slightly high-strung, and he clears his throat before trying again. “You’re makin’ fun of me, aren’t ya?!”

“No, I’m not,” Shouyou says, the smile still lingering on his lips. He goes back to digging into his food, _thankfully_ , and Atsumu stabs into a piece of carrot with his chopsticks. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve heard it.”

“It’s not… it’s just, you—” Atsumu cuts himself off, hating how he actually sounds _flustered_ when Shouyou’s a fucking year younger (or eight months, give or take) and has only given him a compliment that he should be used to receiving. He lowers his gaze to his food in case Shouyou looks at him with those stupidly expressive eyes again. “Nevermind.” Shouyou has enough tact not to ask, and Atsumu shoves a whole fillet into his mouth, then changes the subject: “Have you checked the team schedule yet?”

“Oh, yeah! I was sent the schedule last week!” Shouyou answers mid-chew as he waves his chopsticks, his eyes alight with excitement. “The team travels so much—there’s Germany, then a whole bunch of training camps in other prefectures!”

“It can be fun, but honestly it’s just work most of the time,” Atsumu says, and Shouyou nods his head in understanding. “Plus, have ya heard of the scandal durin’ the Asian Games?”

“Oh, yeah, I did!” Shouyou grimaces. “Doesn’t seem pretty.”

“Definitely,” Atsumu says. “Don’t go patronizin’ prostitutes, okay, Shouyou-kun!” Shouyou chokes on his food, and it’s Atsumu’s turn to laugh at him this time. “I’m just jokin’. Do ya need some water?”

Shouyou shakes his head, still coughing. Atsumu takes pity on him even though he’s still snickering, and pushes his bowl of miso soup closer to him. As Shouyou takes a sip from it, Atsumu continues, “Anyway, I’m guessin’ the managers and coaches will definitely keep a tighter watch on us. Our schedules will probably be packed with little free time. Our assistant coach, Akihiko, is a bit of a conservative when it comes to everything, so.”

“Everything?”

Atsumu thinks about how he’s overheard Akihiko talking about a volleyball player from Canada who outed himself last year, in a tone not different in the way his mother had said “ _normal_ ”, and feels his stomach turn at the memory. “Not in a good way,” Atsumu says vaguely instead. “And he also wants us to send monthly reports of our work-out regime! What a bother!” He rolls his eyes, and Shouyou laughs. “Did you travel much in Rio?”

Shouyou shakes his head. “Nope! It was just work and beach and conditioning.” He lifts the bowl of miso soup and takes another gulp, before he licks his lips clean. “I wasn’t registered under a club, so I had a lot of freedom with my schedule. But I also didn’t have to travel much because Rio’s a hotspot for beach after all!”

“It must be hard when you first got there,” Atsumu says, mixing the corn into his rice. 

“Yeah, it was pretty hard at first! I got used to it, though, and I made a few good friends after a while.”

“That’s good.” Atsumu nods his head, unsurprised by Shouyou’s quick adaptability. He’s a social butterfly just like Bokuto, and he doesn’t seem the type who will be down for long. “Not everyone can survive on their own overseas.” He makes a face. “I doubt I’d be able to.”

“Why?” Shouyou looks surprised. “You are completely fine!”

Atsumu snorts, shoving another mouthful of rice into his mouth. “You have more faith in me than I do in myself, brat.”

Shouyou arches a brow at him. “Or maybe you don’t see yourself clearly.” Atsumu blinks back at him, confused what he means by that, but Shouyou continues without elaborating, “By the way, I will be going for a morning run with Bokuto-san tomorrow! Do you want to join us?”

“Bokkun?” Atsumu looks up from his food, raising a brow at the sudden turn in conversation. “Doesn’t he prefer runnin’ on treadmills?”

“No,” Shouyou replies, slowly. “He just doesn’t like running outdoors alone.”

“The other time I ran with him…” Atsumu frowns when he realizes that he has never really _asked_ Bokuto. He’s always seen him using the treadmill in the gym and simply drew the conclusion. “I just assumed.”

“So? Do you wanna join us?” Shouyou asks, popping a broccoli into his mouth. 

“Sure,” Atsumu agrees easily, reasoning that Shouyou can probably keep up with Bokuto’s enthusiastic chattering if it comes down to it. 

(It’s only later when he returns to his apartment that he realizes he has to wake up early _again_ , and he spends the time he takes to fall asleep lamenting over the additional hour he could’ve had to sleep before practice begins.)

A comfortable silence falls between them as they focus on eating, now, the air filled with the sound of chewing and occasional slurping noises.

“This is really good,” Atsumu says when he’s done with the meal, licking his lips and setting the chopsticks down on his bowl. He flashes Shouyou a grin. “Thank you for makin’ dinner! I really liked it.”

“Ah, it’s no trouble!” Shouyou flushes, looking pleased. “I’m glad you enjoyed it!”

“Good food followed by volleyball games.” Atsumu sighs, contented, interlacing his fingers and stretching his arms outwards. “It’s the life!”

“Don’t you cook your own food?”

“Yeah, I do,” Atsumu says, shrugging. “I usually cook my proteins the same way, though, and I get take-out from time to time. It’s definitely not on yer level.”

“If you don’t mind,” Shouyou says slowly, “you can always drop by. I just have to prepare an extra portion for dinner, anyway.” Atsumu stares at Shouyou, taken aback by the offer. Shouyou looks away and begins clearing the table, and Atsumu moves to help, stacking the bowls together. “With the game recordings as payment, of course!”

Atsumu raises both his brows. “You’re makin’ a loss here, Shouyou-kun.”

“One-on-one spiking practices.” Shouyou cocks his head to the side, a few strands of his fringe falling into his eyes. A cheeky grin slants across his mouth. “And setting tips. And personal feedback sessions after every match. And...” He trails off and pauses, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “I will think of more!”

Atsumu throws his head back and laughs. _So greedy._ “You’re really one-of-a-kind, Shouyou-kun!” He places the last plate into the tray. “We can take turns. Makin’ dinner, I mean. You can come to my place next time to watch the recordings if ya want.”

Shouyou perks up, eyes practically sparkling as a broad grin stretches across his lips, the cute dimple indenting his left cheek. “Really?!”

There’s a strange flutter at the centre of his chest as an answering smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and Atsumu wonders who in their right mind can say no to him. 

🏐

The next few weeks pass in a flurry of intense volleyball practices as they inch closer to in-season, with V League approaching in less than two months. Atsumu works dutifully on the new serve he’s been trying since August at the expense of his usual two, and his teammates have latched on and turned it into fodder for teasing because it’s apparently been too long since they’ve seen him fumble. It’s easy to brush them off because he doesn’t think there’s anything embarrassing about trying hard for something you really want, but it’s still frustrating to mess up things he’s supposed to be good in. 

Regardless, he’s already started trying anyway, and he’s determined to suck it up and plow on ahead until he achieves his goal—giving up halfway is one of the _most_ uncool things ever and he’d rather die than do anything like that. He explained as much when Bokuto asked about it during one of their now routine morning runs with Shouyou, and the two of them had looked at him with such awe-struck expressions that he couldn’t resist preening for the remainder of the run.

Atsumu’s so swamped by everything that he only finds time to drop by Onigiri Miya on Saturday night, slumping forward on one of the seats at the counter with a groan. 

“You haven’t been moochin’ off me as much recently,” Osamu says as form of greeting, scooping out the rice from the iron pot. “Have ya finally gotten yer shit together?”

Atsumu props his chin on the table and scrunches up his face. “Why are you so mean. You’re gonna be single forever.”

“I’m only like this with you, don’t worry.” Osamu closes the iron pot with the lid. “Shouldn’t you worry ‘bout yerself instead?”

“I’m busy,” Atsumu says without looking up at Osamu, eyes sliding close as he dangles his arms below the table. “Don’tcha have that cute college student workin’ part-time for ya?”

“What the fuck. I’m not gonna make a move on my _employee_.”

“Boring.”

“Why don’tcha make a move on her instead?”

“She’s…” Shouyou’s face flashes past his mind, and he opens his eyes, gaze drifting to the drawing of the alien onigiri still tacked on proudly among the collection of children’s art on the wall. There are surely more new additions, but the alien onigiri still stands out with its bright colours and bizarre form. “She’s not my type.” After a moment of silence, he straightens his back and leans his chest against the edge of the table. “Can ya make a few more onigiris, by the way?”

Osamu glances up from the rice in his palm. “What for?”

“For Shouyou-kun! I wanna let him try yer onigiris,” Atsumu replies. “I think he’d love it. He’s really good at cookin’ too!”

“The shortie from Karasuno?” Osamu has returned his attention to the rice in his hands, fingers pressing into the center of it to create a small well. “I’ve been seein’ a lot of him on yer instastories. Is he the poor victim you’re currently moochin’ off on?”

“I’m not moochin’ off him! We take turns to cook!” Atsumu exclaims defensively, though he doesn’t add that they usually eat at Shouyou’s anyway. “When we go grocery shoppin’ together, I pay for some of the food too!”

“How domestic,” Osamu drawls, as he adds the filling into the rice. “Sounds nice.”

“Stop soundin’ so sarcastic.” Atsumu pulls a face at Osamu even though he’s not looking at him, his hands busy moulding the rice into the shape of a triangle. “I’m not takin’ advantage of Shouyou-kun!”

Osamu makes a noise at the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a snort, and Atsumu resists the urge to throw a bottle of condiment to his head. “Y’know what,” Osamu says, as he wraps the ball of rice with a thick strip of _nori_. “I will make some extras. He deserves more than that after puttin’ up with ya.”

“I will pay,” Atsumu offers, ignoring the underlying insult.

“Wow,” Osamu deadpans, flicking a glance up at him. “What happened to the shameless ‘Tsumu I know?”

Atsumu splutters, affronted. “ _Hey_!”

Osamu ignores him, turning back and pulling something from the shelves. Atsumu drops his forehead against the edge of the table and closes his eyes, listening to the clattering of plastic and the sound of water running in the sink. The faint smell of vinegar lingering in the air is oddly soothing. For a long, peaceful moment, that’s all that fills Atsumu’s head. 

🏐

Atsumu spent most of the night whining about how badly his new serve sucks, and Osamu looked like he couldn’t care less, telling him to _crash and burn_ since he’s just doing it for looking cool, the bastard. Osamu had fed him minced tuna and spring onion onigiris anyway, one of his absolute favourites, and Atsumu thinks that was probably his way of cheering him up even though he was being a dick about it on the surface.

He reaches the apartment building around eight, grateful for the lack of rain. The night is comfortably cooling, and his long-sleeved hoodie is enough of a protection against the moderate temperature of late September. He whistles a merry tune as he swipes his card at the entrance before he enters the building, swinging the Onigiri Miya bag in his hand, the container of onigiris that Osamu had packed for Shouyou resting snugly at the bottom of it.

He raps on Shouyou’s door twice when he reaches his place and counts to nine before the door swings open. Shouyou looks freshly showered, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and polyester shorts, his hair damp and flattened with a towel draped over his head. He flashes him a bright dimpled smile as he pushes the door open wider for Atsumu to enter. “Hello, Atsumu-san! Come in!”

Atsumu toes off his shoes and steps over the ledge to slide his feet into the slippers by the entrance. He shuts the door behind him, the lock clicking in place, before he follows Shouyou down the familiar hallway. “What are ya up to?”

“I just bathed after helping out at the volleyball clinic,” Shouyou says, hand reaching up to towel his hair dry with half-hearted motions. A few cold water droplets land on Atsumu’s face, but he’s so used to it by now he doesn’t even flinch. “I’m re-watching One Piece now!”

“One Piece?” Atsumu echoes. He has heard of it, but he’s never felt interested enough in animes to give it a try. “Is it good?”

“Is it _good_ ,” Shouyou repeats, sounding the most affronted he’s ever heard him. He pulls the towel down from his head, hooking it around his neck. He screws his face up at Atsumu, a comical and absolutely _terrible_ impression of a murderous look with how he instead reminds him of a myopic elderly man trying to read the fine prints of the paper, and Atsumu has to suppress the rising laughter from his throat. “ _Is it good_?!”

Atsumu blinks innocently back at Shouyou.

Shouyou huffs and snags him by the hand, wrapping his fingers around his as he tugs him into the main room with large determined strides, calluses of his palm pressing against his knuckles. There’s the stupid flutter beneath his ribs that he’s starting to get used to when he’s around Shouyou. “I will show you the beauty of One Piece!”

Atsumu’s answering laughter is high-strung and too loud to his ears as he tries not to think about how easy it’d be to curl his fingers around Shouyou’s. “It’s yer favourite, huh.” 

“It is!” Shouyou says brightly, releasing Atsumu’s hand to add a cushion next to his. It feels oddly bereft without Shouyou’s warmth, and he flexes his fingers before he buries it in the pocket of his hoodie. “Come, come!” Shouyou’s already seated, and he pats on the cushion beside him invitingly, eyes sparkling with barely concealed excitement. “It might be one of the best things you’ve ever watched!”

Atsumu flicks a glance at the screen of the opened laptop, the video frozen at the part where a scrawny boy wearing a straw hat is wielding a slightly curved katana. He looks unhealthily skinny. Atsumu wonders what the hell Shouyou’s watching. 

“All right,” he says, relenting, placing the _Onigiri Miya_ bag on the table before he plops down on the cushion. There’s no point in saying no to him anyway. “Which episode is this?”

“Eight hundred and ninety-seven! But we should start from episode one!” Shouyou happily taps out of the screen to scroll through the episode list as Atsumu mouths _eight hundred_ to himself in sheer horror. How many _days’_ worth of this weird, skinny man does he have to suffer through? “What’s in that bag, by the way?”

“It’s from ‘Samu. He made a few extra onigiris so I brought ‘em for ya to try.” Atsumu presses his shoulder against Shouyou’s to get a better look of the screen. He smells ridiculously good as always, the scent of fresh coconuts mixed with what he now learned is Shouyou’s natural body scent. “It’s shinmai rice he got straight from Kita-san—super quality stuff!”

“Kita-san?” Shouyou repeats. “I remember him! He was your captain!”

“Yer brain’s pretty amazin’,” Atsumu says, impressed by Shouyou’s memory. “Or is it just amazin’ when it comes to volleyball?” Shouyou shoots him a glare out of the corner of his eye, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m just jokin’!” He laughs. “Yeah, Kita-san was our captain. He went back home and became a rice farmer. Pretty incredible, huh?”

“... You must really look up to him,” Shouyou says, still scrolling through the seemingly endless number of episodes.

“I do,” Atsumu agrees easily, “anyway, onigiris?”

“Oh, right!” Shouyou perks up. “Please send my thanks to Osamu-san; it’s really nice of him!” He leans across Atsumu to drag the bag next to the laptop, his damp hair brushing against his chin. Shouyou reaches into the bag to pull out the plastic container and turns to look at Atsumu. “How much is it?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes and rapping his knuckles lightly against Shouyou’s forehead. Shouyou makes a face at him, but doesn’t move away. “Ya don’t hafta pay.” His gaze drops to the wet strands curled loosely around Shouyou’s ears, and his hand slides into the thick mass of hair unthinkingly, tugging on a damp lock of hair. “And you should really dry yer hair properly.”

“Yeah,” Shouyou says, and there’s a tight quality to his voice that grabs Atsumu’s attention immediately.

Atsumu lowers his eyes to Shouyou’s face, brows creasing slightly, and his breath catches in his throat when he meets Shouyou’s wide-eyed stare. They are so close Atsumu can count the sparse smattering of sun freckles across his pink-tinted cheeks, and he drops his hand from his hair like he’s been burned, leaning back to put more distance between them, a heavy knot resting at the bottom of his belly. His fingers are left feeling colder than before, a phantom wetness coating his hand as he rubs it against his hoodie.

“For all the responsible adult things you’ve been doin’,” Atsumu says, keeping his tone carefully light, “ya can be like a child sometimes.”

Shouyou’s face is still slightly flushed, but he rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop. “Say that again when you need help catching flying insects.” He pauses, then slants a look at Atsumu. “Or when you thought good tomatoes are supposed to be soft and squishy.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, then closes it again when he can’t think of a good rebuttal. “How was I supposed to know what a good tomato’s supposed to be like,” he finally says, scowling, as he gets up from the cushion. He’s never bought regular tomatoes before he went grocery shopping with Shouyou, a true loyal consumer of cherry tomatoes, and there’s no way he’d have known that good regular tomatoes actually need to be _chosen_. “I’ll be the adult this time then.” He drops down on the two-seater behind Shouyou. “I’ll dry yer hair for ya. Move back a bit, Shouyou-kun.”

Shouyou twists his torso, half-turning to throw a surprised glance over his shoulder. “Are you serious?”

Atsumu sighs, exasperated. “Just come over, wouldja.” He watches as Shouyou gets on his knees to grab the underside of the table, dragging it closer to the two-seater, the muscles of his tanned arms bunching against his skin. Atsumu runs his tongue against the back of his teeth and focuses on the spot between the broad planes of Shouyou’s shoulders. It’s fucking _impossible_ how well Shouyou has grown into adulthood. “Do ya need help?”

“Nope, I’m done!” Shouyou carefully lowers the side of the table down on the ground, then scoots back to slot himself between Atsumu’s open knees, leaning against the front of the couch. Atsumu pulls the towel off Shouyou’s neck wordlessly as he selects the first episode of One Piece and ramps up the volume of the laptop. “Let me know if you can’t hear it!”

The narrator’s voice blasts through the speaker, telling the tale of pirates and hidden treasures, and Atsumu drapes the towel over Shouyou’s head with a snort. “I’d be deaf if I can’t hear it.”

Shouyou tilts his head back to look at Atsumu then, towel sliding off his head and onto the couch, wet strands of hair falling back from his forehead. His mouth curves, an impish slant to it, and Atsumu thinks he feels his heart jump to his throat. “You don’t like to admit it, but you’re actually really nice, Atsumu-san.” 

Shouyou’s eyes are the softest brown he’s ever seen, the colour of mud he fearlessly tumbled and slipped into when he played rugby as a child, and Atsumu’s afraid to look into them for too long. There is no rain to soften the soil for him here, and nothing to cushion to his fall. 

Atsumu frames the sides of his face with his hands and tips him forward so he’s facing the laptop again. 

“And I think you actually talk too much,” Atsumu says, carefully reining in the semblance of _anything_ from his voice, and pulls his hands away before they linger longer than they should. His palms are still tingling from the warmth of Shouyou’s cheeks as he grabs the towel from the couch and drops it on Shouyou’s head to begin towelling his hair. “Eat yer onigiris and let me see what’s so good ‘bout the show.”

When he returns to his apartment and lies down in bed that night, he presses a clenched fist to his thumping heart, and tries not to think about calloused palms and the scent of fresh coconuts.

🏐

One would think that travelling overseas for work would be exciting, but it’s really not when you’re stuck with fifteen other teammates, with at least five of them radiating loud boisterous energy that starts a dull throbbing behind his temples before they even board the plane. 

He’s lucky to get Kodama beside him for the flight, the thirty-three year old nodding to him with a small smile before he pulls his sleep mask over his eyes and leaves him in peace for the next twelve hours. The undisturbed sleep he gets on the plane doesn’t help, however, his headache only worsening when they do a tight transfer in Schipol for a seventy-five-minute layover. They rush from one end of the airport to another, going through multiple security checks and customs inspections, barely managing to board the flight to Hamburg on time. 

Whoever planned the flight itinerary, Atsumu thinks unsympathetically, should be fired. 

After reassuring a concerned Bokuto that he’s perfectly fine because he apparently looks like shit, Atsumu goes two rows down to dump his carry-on in the overhead compartment before he drops into the stupid seat in the despicable middle row. The loud chatters of the team wear on his nerves as they find their seats, the pressure throbbing persistently at his temples, and Atsumu grinds his teeth and closes his eyes, trying not to snap.

“Ah, found it!” 

Atsumu turns his head, a familiar knot twisting in his belly when he sees Shouyou standing at the aisle by his row, mouth slanting to a half-smile before he plops down beside him. They haven’t really spoken since Saturday when he dropped by to pass Shouyou the onigiris, and the session with his personal trainer after the AM practice on Monday gave him a perfectly valid reason to tap out of any further social interaction with the team. Atsumu doesn’t want to think about the disappointment when he doesn’t get to spend more time with Shouyou, or the odd tangle of nerves when he _does_ see Shouyou.

Atsumu slides down lower in his seat, thinking about how the world is against him. Everyone’s gotten into their seats now, and the annoying din has dulled into muted background noises as the flight attendants begin the obligatory safety briefing. He squeezes his eyes shut when a particularly painful jolt shoots through his skull. His mouth flattens to a thin line as he grimaces. 

“Are you okay?” Shouyou’s voice is startling near, hot breath blowing past his ear. Atsumu shivers, opening his eyes to see Shouyou studying his face mere inches away, his brows scrunched worriedly together. A strange tightness squeezes in his chest. “Headache?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu exhales a low shuddering breath, shifting in his seat. There’s not much space for him move, and Shouyou’s too close. “Shouldn’t Kodama-san be here?”

“Uh.” Shouyou tugs at the neck of his thick hoodie with a cartoon print of a stupidly cute meat bun, and Atsumu catches a glimpse of the black MSBY jersey worn underneath. “Kodama-san wanted a window seat, so I switched with him.” Shouyou leans back against his seat and fumbles with buckling his seatbelt for a moment. Atsumu thinks he breathes a little easier now, at least. “And you don’t seem to feel well, so I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Like shit,” Atsumu answers honestly, his throat tightening when he catches the glimmer of concern in Shouyou’s brown eyes. He loosens the strap of his seatbelt a little. “Don’t feel like talkin’.” 

“Okay,” Shouyou says, still soft, “I will wake you up when we reach.”

When the overhead lights dim to darkness and the plane begins its climb to a higher altitude after its acceleration on the runway, Atsumu still can’t find the _right_ position, adjusting himself against the seat with rising levels of irritation. 

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou whispers.

Atsumu stops moving in his seat, pulsating rhythm still beating against his skull. He exhales heavily. “Sorry. I just hate sittin’ in the middle row.”

“No, not that,” Shouyou says, shaking his head. “Wanna try using my shoulder instead? Sorry, I’d have switched with you if I knew you wanted the window seat.”

Atsumu stares mutely at him, but Shouyou doesn’t look away, waiting expectantly for his answer. “You’re shorter than me,” he eventually says, and he realizes it’s probably not the smartest thing he could’ve came up with.

Shouyou rolls his eyes, but there’s a subtle curve of his mouth. “You’re slumping so low in your seat it’d be the right height, anyway.” He cocks his head to the side, slant of his mouth stretching to a lopsided grin, and in the faint lighting, Atsumu thinks he catches a pinkish tint on his cheeks. “I can be your window seat for the next hour, Atsumu-san.”

 _Shouyou-kun_ , Atsumu thinks, ribs constricting around his lungs, _is fucking impossible._

Atsumu drops his head on Shouyou’s shoulder before his expression says too much. The cabin lights have turned up a notch, now, after the plane has stabilized into cruising height, and he doesn’t want to take his chances. “Well, since you’re offerin’.”

Atsumu wriggles in his seat, arms folded against his chest, and makes himself comfortable. It feels much nicer to have something to lean on and it’s even better than the window seat, because it smells like fresh coconuts, citrus detergent, and... just _Shouyou_. He doesn’t want to think about how it anchors him or how it abates his headache by the slightest bit, and he buries his nose into the slight dip of Shouyou’s shoulder. “How do you always smell so good,” he grouses.

“… Sleep, Atsumu-san. I will wake you up when we reach.”

It takes only a few minutes for the drowsiness to set in, and as his eyelids draw close, he feels a light, tentative touch on his head. “Shouyou-kun?” He mumbles groggily, not bothering to open his eyes. 

The featherlight weight disappears almost immediately. “Sorry.”

“No.” Atsumu blindly reaches out, then loops his arm around Shouyou’s that’s rested on the low armrest between them, leaning his weight against the solid bulk of muscles. He snuggles in closer like a koala hugging a tree. “It’s nice.”

Shouyou’s quiet, but the soothing touch returns, stroking his hair with gentle fingers, and Atsumu falls asleep with quiet contentment sinking down to the marrow of his bones.

🏐

Once they alighted from the plane, the team managers ushered them onto a chartered bus that stopped at a local diner en route to the hotel, where everyone, still dazed and disoriented from the long flight and seven-hour time difference, filled their stomachs in silence. The entire day has been jam-packed, but Atsumu’s glad that his headache’s mostly gone by the time they are done with dinner. 

Bokuto uses his shoulder as headrest for the rest of the way back to the hotel, smacking his lips as he mumbles something incoherent under his breath before he dozes off with his mouth agape. Atsumu pushes his jaw close, but it drops open again once his fingers leave his chin. He pulls his hand away, snickering, and lifts his head to find Shouyou half-turned in his seat, looking at him from his seat a few rows in front.

He points to the snoring Bokuto beside him, then tilts his head back and slackens his jaw in an exaggerated imitation of his comical sleeping countenance, sticking his tongue out at the corner of his mouth. Shouyou snorts so loudly that Inunaki pokes his head over the seat, raising a questioning brow at Atsumu, having missed his Oscar-worthy performance. 

Atsumu gives Inunaki a look of feigned innocence and catches Shouyou’s dimpled grin before he turns back to the front. Inunaki’s eyes flit between the two of them, curious, before he slowly sinks back down in his seat beside Shouyou. For the remainder of the bus ride, Atsumu has his elbow propped on his carry-on, hiding a smile against his fist.

They reach _Atles Kaufhaus_ fifteen minutes before nine, and Atsumu rubs his hands together for friction as they enter through tall automatic sliding doors, the cool blast of air-conditioning matching the chilly temperature outside. Atsumu scrunches his face up reflexively against the sharp sting of his nose and sniffs—he fucking _hates_ the weather already, and he still has five more days to go. 

The lobby is decked out in dark plush leathers and oversized potted plants, bathed in warm yellow glow from the cove lighting, and the large transparent windows look out to River Ilmenau (what he read when he googled the hotel they'd be staying out of curiosity, anyway), bordered by half-timbered houses. Atsumu casts the scenic landscape a dispassionate glance before he follows the team to where Sakamoto and Yamamoto are waiting near the reception desk.

Thing is, travelling overseas with the team means losing lots of personal freedom, not only because their schedules essentially revolve only around strength training, practice, and games, but also because the PR manager tries to keep tabs on their movements all the time (and Yamamoto’s even more uptight with the recent Asian Games scandal that booted four Japanese basketball players from the roster), especially when they are donned in their team jerseys. There is no guarantee they have time to explore the city or learn about its foreign culture; at the very core of it, this is a business trip, and they are expected to focus on training. 

The bright side of this relinquishing of autonomy, though, is that they don’t have to handle anything outside of volleyball at all—and honestly? Thank fucking God for that. 

Sakamoto gathers them together and begins ticking names off the clipboard, sweeping his eyes over the team to do a final headcount, as Akihiko and Foster talk to Yamamoto in hushed tones a few feet away from the reception desk. 

“There’s a billiard table,” Bokuto whispers to Shouyou, the two of them huddled closely in front of Atsumu, as Sakamoto continues his headcount. Atsumu looks over to where Bokuto is gesturing, past the rectangular pillars, and spots the billiard table. “Should we go play later?”

“We should sleep, Bokuto-san,” Shouyou says, ever the responsible one when it comes to abiding by his sleep schedule. “It was a long flight!”

Atsumu steps forward and slides his arms over Shouyou’s shoulders, wrapping them loosely around his neck as he rests his chin on Shouyou’s head of soft orange curls. Shouyou startles, tipping his head back slightly. His eyes draw to a half-lidded gaze when he sees Atsumu, warm yellow light softening the sharp planes of his face, and there’s a slight tilt of his mouth before he faces front again.

Atsumu exhales a shuddering breath, chest tight, and turns his attention to Bokuto. “What are y’all talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I wanna play that!” Bokuto says, pointing over to the billiard table. “Hinata says no!”

“Shouyou-kun’s a pretty doll who can’t sleep later than ten,” Atsumu drawls, teasing lilt in his tone. He nudges against Shouyou’s head with his chin. “Aren’tcha?”

“I’m not a _doll_. It’s called being healthy!” Shouyou pinches the back of Atsumu’s hand, but it doesn’t really hurt, and Atsumu huffs a laugh against his hair, which smells like the polyester seat from the bus ride just now. Atsumu’s heart is beating too fast against his ribs, considering he's just thinking about how Shouyou resembles an angry quokka. “We can play tomorrow, Bokuto-san!”

Sakamoto calls them to follow him then, done with checking the names off his list, and Atsumu detaches himself from Shouyou, falling into step beside him as Sakamoto leads them to the conference room.

All sixteen players, on top of the team managers and coaches, are crammed into the room labelled _Dormero 2_. Being one of the last few to enter, Atsumu has to stand at the back of the room with Shouyou and Bokuto. Kyogo and Higuchi are huddled at the corner of the room, probably afraid to sit when there aren’t enough chairs for everyone. Sakusa’s the last to enter, flicking the light switch off when Foster asks him to, and takes his place beside Atsumu wordlessly. 

Sakamoto runs through tomorrow’s itinerary before Foster and Akihiko take over to go through the statistics of SVG Luneburg, the team they are playing against for tomorrow’s practice match. He sniffs irritably as one of SVG’s past matches plays on the screen, feeling the cold bite into the inside of his nose. His nose’s itchy as fuck, and he’s sure it’s going to start running soon.

“I will find a good spot to bury your body if you die here,” Sakusa says, eyes trained on the projector screen. 

“I won’t die,” Atsumu hisses back, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Sakusa snaps his head to him immediately. Even with the mask on, Atsumu can sense the absolute disgust Sakusa’s channelling at him through his glare. “It’s just cold!”

“You’re gross,” Sakusa says flatly, taking a step to the side to put more distance between them. Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Don’t you have tissues?”

“I’d have taken it out by now, don’tcha think?”

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou whispers, tapping his forearm lightly. Atsumu turns to find Shouyou holding out a packet of tissues. “Here.”

“You’re the best, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says gratefully, taking it from him and pulling out a sheet of tissue. He sticks his tongue out at Sakusa and waves the tissue in his face triumphantly.

Sakusa flinches back, brows scrunching together. “Get your dirty hands away from me.”

Atsumu grins but obliges anyway, tucking the tissue packet under his arm before he rips the tissue into half and twists each end of it to stuff them up his nostrils. 

“You look like a walrus,” Bokuto remarks, when Atsumu taps on Shouyou’s shoulder to get his attention. 

Atsumu flips Bokuto off with a finger before he hands the tissue packet back to Shouyou, a wide smile on his face. “Thanks, Shouyou-kun!"

“It’s fine,” Shouyou says, flicking a glance down at the tissue packet before he averts his eyes back to the screen. Foster clicks away the last clip and announces the line-up for tomorrow. “I brought extras for you anyway.”

Atsumu nods his head slowly and slides the tissue into his pocket, the words sinking into his brain as he turns back to the screen. It’s not really a _huge_ thing, per say; he didn’t jump in front of a speeding car for him, nor did he shield him from a gunshot, but warmth suffuses the space beneath his ribs, unbidden, and as he tries to focus on Foster’s words, the sharp prickling of his nose is the last thing on his mind.

Yamamoto assigns them their rooms afterwards, putting them in twos and distributing their hotel key cards. The crowd in the room gets thinner as the team breaks up and streams out in small batches to head up to their rooms, desperate to catch some proper rest before the practice match tomorrow. Kyogo’s about to make his way over to Atsumu when Higuchi grabs him by the scruff of his sweater, bows politely to Atsumu, and drags him away. 

Atsumu holds back his laughter; seems like the two newcomers have gotten a lot closer.

“You don’t have to worry about Bokkun,” Atsumu tells Sakusa, after watching Kyogo and Higuchi leave. Sakusa has been studying Bokuto for the past minute. “He’s actually a really good roommate.”

Sakusa slants a look over at Atsumu, like he’s trying to decide if Atsumu’s words can be trusted. Or maybe he simply doesn’t trust Atsumu’s standard of a good roommate.

“I’ve roomed with him before,” Atsumu says, deliberately taking his time to untwist the tissues out from his nostrils. Sakusa makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat as Atsumu scrunches them up in his hand. “I’d know.”

Bokuto seems to realize they are talking about him, because he turns to them with an arm slung over Shouyou’s shoulder, grinning widely at Sakusa. “Don’t worry, Omi-kun! I keep to my side of the room, I don’t snore, and I don’t leave trash or dirty clothes around!”

Sakusa adjusts the strap of his duffel bag across his body, the stiff set of his shoulders slowly relaxing. “That’s… nice.”

“Told ya.”

“Still! I can’t believe Tsum-Tsum gets to room with Hinata!” Bokuto wags his finger at Atsumu. “You’re practically over at Hinata’s all the time back in Japan already!”

“I’m not!” Atsumu scrunches up his face. “Only sometimes!”

“Whenever I go over, you are there!” Bokuto crosses his arms and levels a disapproving look on Atsumu. “Hinata’s _my_ disciple, and you are monopolizing him!”

 _Monopolizing._ Atsumu’d have given Bokuto a thumbs-up for that if he wasn’t being irrational. He must have been memorizing new words from Akaashi’s dictionary again. 

“Well, Hinata’s _my_ wing spiker,” Atsumu retorts. “I’m his setter! We are buildin’ a strong bond to perform better on court!”

“Hinata’s an emergency setter, too! He also needs to work with me!” Bokuto huffs, lifting his chin defiantly. “Plus, _all_ of us need a strong bond for good teamwork! You have to learn how to share!”

“This is stupid,” Sakusa deadpans, cutting in before the to-and-fro between Atsumu and Bokuto can continue. “Hinata’s still here and y’all are talking about him as if he’s not.”

“Ah, sorry, Hinata!” Bokuto wraps his arms around Shouyou, hugging him sideways. “I didn’t mean to be rude!”

Shouyou throws his head back and laughs, patting on Bokuto’s arm. “It’s okay, Bokuto-san. I don’t mind.”

“Well.” Atsumu juts out his bottom lip. “If you’re sick of me, I can always switch with Omi-kun.” He manages to force the words out without sounding like he has a knife to his throat, and he thinks that’s a victory on its own. “I won’t mind.”

“It’s really okay,” Shouyou reassures him. He does that stupid, cute head tilt again, long hair falling into his eyes as he grins. “I like your company, Atsumu-san.” 

The tightness is back again, coiled at the centre of his chest, and if he turns it over enough in his head it might sound awfully like, _I like you, Atsumu-san_ , and it’s... it shouldn’t even be on his mind, when Shouyou’s just being nice. Atsumu swallows hard and wrenches his gaze away, spotting Meian and Oliver approaching them with their key cards in hand, thankfully saving him from having to respond.

“Why are y’all still here?” Meian asks, arching a brow when he reaches them. “Your rooms have been assigned a while ago.”

“The young lads must be having a chat!” Oliver grins. “When I was young, I was inseparable from my friends too!”

“You’re not _that_ much older, Oliver,” Meian says dryly, pocketing the hotel key card. “Stop sounding like a grandfather.”

“I’m going to be a father soon, though!” Oliver says, eyes lighting up. “Do you kids want to see a picture of my baby?”

Shouyou and Bokuto are beside Oliver in an instant, pleading for him to share the photo, and Oliver’s laughing as he leads them out of the room, digging into his pocket for his phone. 

“Not going with them?” Meian asks, jerking his head for Sakusa and Atsumu to follow after he inclines his head politely to the team managers and coaches at the front of the room.

“Not a big fan of babies,” Sakusa says. “I don’t hate them, really. I just don’t like the mess they make.”

Meian laughs, stepping out in the corridor and following after the noisy trio that’s huddled together, Shouyou and Bokuto pressed against Oliver on each side, gushing over whatever picture they are being shown. Oliver looks like a fucking giant wedged between the two of them, towering over them both easily with his tall athletic built. Though, to be fair, he towers over every-fucking-one easily, just a few centimetres short of seven feet. 

“Fair enough,” Meian replies, nodding his head. “They _do_ make a big mess.”

“Aren’t you interested, Meian-san?” Atsumu asks.

“I love babies, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve seen those pictures of his at least a hundred times.” Meian chuckles. “What about you, Miya? What’s your excuse?”

“I just feel awkward around them.” Atsumu flicks his wrist, the balled-up tissues diving cleanly into the mouth of the trashbin a few feet away. “I don’t know what to do with my hands. Babies are so small and fragile.”

Meian blinks at him like it’s not an answer that he was expecting, then he slaps Atsumu on the shoulder heartily. Meian doesn’t seem to notice he’s using at least _half_ his spiking strength—or that’s what it felt like to Atsumu, anyway—the hit leaving a stinging sensation behind. 

“Hurts, Meian-san!” Atsumu whines, pulling away from Meian and rubbing a hand over his shoulder. “Do it harder and I won’t be able to set tomorrow!”

“Sorry,” Meian says, though he doesn’t seem at all apologetic. Sakusa snorts beside him, and Atsumu tries to jostle him with his elbow, but he dodges out of the way cleanly. “Didn’t think you’d feel awkward around babies.”

They stop at the lift lobby, where Oliver is still presumably talking about his baby with Shouyou and Bokuto, because there’s this… telling glow on his face, whenever he mentions his pregnant wife, or the child that he will soon carry in his arms. Atsumu wonders if that'd be him ten years down the road.

“Don’t worry.” Meian reaches out for Atsumu’s shoulder, and Atsumu flinches away, shooting Meian a wary look. Meian rolls his eyes and lets his hand fall back to his side. “It’d feel different when you’re a father.”

Sakusa snorts again, fingers pulling up the face mask that’s slipping down his nose. “I pity the mother of your child.”

Atsumu bristles, scowl fitting across the length of his mouth. “I’m not _that_ bad!”

Meian throws his head back and laughs, ushering them into the lift as Oliver calls for them to hurry. “We are only joking, Miya, calm down,” he says, “I’m sure you’d be a great father.”

“Yeah, Tsum-Tsum, I think so too,” Bokuto says seriously, like Atsumu’s the one with a pregnant wife, as the lift doors slide close and begins its ascent upwards. “Don’t worry about it!”

Oliver tucks his phone back into his pocket. “You just need to find the right person and you’re set!” He grins widely. “Like me finding my wife!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard Bokuto date anyone,” Meian says. “Atsumu’s been single since early last year, too.” He scratches his chin. “What about Hinata and Sakusa?”

Sakusa shrugs. “I’m not interested.”

Atsumu nods his head, though he has his eyes fixed on Shouyou. He did mention that he’s too busy for dating back then, but who knows what’s happened between then and now? He’s sure Shouyou has his fair share of admirers. 

Shouyou offers a small smile to Meian. “I’m single too.”

Atsumu coughs into his fist, hiding the stupid surge of relief and satisfaction that tugs at the corners of his lips. There’s no right or reason for him to be happy that Shouyou’s not taken. 

“That’s a surprise,” Oliver says. “All of you are perfectly eligible. Is this a young people thing?” Oliver frowns. “I can set up a group date.”

Meian pats on Oliver’s shoulder sympathetically. “I have tried, believe me.” The lift dings its arrival on their floor, and the bunch of them stream out into the hallway laid out in thick and lush red carpeting. “Let the kids take their time.”

They branch off to their rooms as they go further down the corridor, with Meian reminding them to set their alarms even though they have asked for the morning call service. Atsumu and Shouyou reach their room last, just two doors down from Bokuto and Sakusa, and Atsumu scans the key card at the door before he wrenches it open.

The luggage bags are already placed in their room, and Atsumu picks up his by the handle and toes off his shoes near the door. Shouyou bounces on ahead to take in the surroundings with the energy of a kid going overseas for the first time, barefoot and practically vibrating with excitement. It’s stupidly endearing. 

The room’s adorned with cream-colored walls and taupe carpeted floor, furnished with a neutral built-in flat screen TV and a floor-to-ceiling window that has a set of dark wood table and chair placed in front of it. There’s nothing extraordinary about it except… Atsumu’s eyes fall on the two connected single beds in the middle of the room, and his grip tightens around the handle of his luggage.

“Do you have a preference?” Shouyou asks, cutting into his thoughts, blinking at him with those big, doe-like eyes of his as he gestures to the beds.

He clears his throat and drops the luggage by the closet. “Uh. No.” He opens the closet and pulls the lower drawer open, finding two pairs of disposable slippers. “You can pick whichever.” He grabs one and tosses it over to Shouyou, who catches it reflexively against his chest. “They have slippers here; you don’t have to walk around barefoot.”

“Thank you!”

Silence hangs between them, filled with only the crackling of the plastic packaging as they rip theirs open. 

“Atsumu-san?” 

Atsumu shoves the slippers on his feet. “Yeah?”

“What were the others talking about when they said you’d be a great father?” 

Atsumu balls up the plastic wrapper and tosses it into the bin below the TV. “Nothing much. I just said that I was awkward with babies.” Atsumu lays his luggage flat on the ground and thumbs the password into the lock. “And they said I’d be a good father after insultin’ me a whole bunch.” He snorts, shaking his head, and flips the lid open to pull out a fresh change of clothes.

“I do think you’d be a good father though,” Shouyou says, a strange lilt to his voice. Atsumu looks up from his luggage, but Shouyou’s bent over at the foot of the bed, presumably still wearing his disposable slippers. 

“Thanks?” Atsumu rubs the back of his neck, then goes back to pulling out a towel from his bag. “It’d be good to have kids, I guess. I mean, it’s normal to seriously think ‘bout it when you’re married or close to thirty.” Atsumu continues stacking the fresh change of clothes on his lap. “But I’m none of those now. So who knows what will happen in future?” He shrugs. “What ‘bout ya?”

Shouyou’s still seated on the edge of the bed, staring down at the plastic in his hands. It’s difficult to see what his expression is from the angle Atsumu’s looking at him. 

“I probably won’t have kids,” Shouyou says, after a beat of silence.

Atsumu frowns. “Why?”

Shouyou scrunches up the packaging in his hands, but he doesn’t answer him. 

Atsumu arches a brow. “What, do you secretly hate kids?” He whistles low. " _That_ would be a surprise!"

Shouyou stands and pads towards the TV, dropping the ball of plastic in the bin. He turns, now only a few feet away from Atsumu, his broad shoulders rigidly set. Atsumu can’t think of why he’s suddenly so... 

“No. I like kids.” 

Shouyou’s staring at him, and it feels like he’s weighing something in his head. There’s a _look_ on Shouyou’s face that has a heavy knot twisting itself at the pit of Atsumu’s stomach, and he’s suddenly afraid to hear what he’s going to say next.

"... It's nothing," Shouyou says, finally, then grins. It feels off and a little forced. "Just something I can't really imagine!"

Shouyou's unusually stiff. Is his mother hounding him to find a partner or something? Atsumu gets up from his spot and closes the distance between him and Shouyou in a split second, pressing a hand between his tense shoulder blades. His muscles ripple under his touch, but Atsumu ignores it, and scrunches his brows together to feign deep thought for a moment. 

Shouyou looks utterly nonplussed.

“You can relax now,” Atsumu says, finally, nodding and crossing his arms. "Doctor Atsumu declares you free of scoliosis."

Shouyou stares at him blankly for a moment, then: 

"Oh, my _God_ . _"_ He chortles breathlessly, pressing the heel of his hand to his face and shaking with uncontrollable laughter. "I cannot _believe_ you."

"I know, I know," Atsumu says, grinning, appreciating the pinkish tinge of Shouyou's cheeks. "Funniest guy you've ever met, right?" He sweeps his hair back proudly. "I'm a rare breed."

"Yes, you really are," Shouyou agrees, mouth slanted to a lopsided grin. Shouyou's eyes are fixed on his, now, pinning him in place, and Atsumu's suddenly aware that his lips would brush against his forehead if he leans in any closer. "Guess I found a gem, huh?"

"Of course," Atsumu says, more breathless than he'd have liked, turning away with a laugh that’s too high-pitched to be real, and tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss him.

When Atsumu steps into the bathroom later, the knot weighing at his abdomen has barely loosened. He rests a hand against his thumping heart and stares into the mirror, spotting the flush of his cheeks and a stupid curve of his mouth he hasn’t even realized was there. _It’s…_ His fingers curl into a tight fist. 

Really, what was he surprised about? He’s known he likes both boys and girls since high school, when he kissed the cutest girl in class after the third years left and wondered what Kita’s lips would feel like under his instead of hers. He’s never made a move on Kita, though, because as much as he liked him, he has never felt compelled to do anything about it. Kita seemed invincible; a stoic, unwavering pillar the team always relied on. At the same time, he was untouchable—he cared for everyone equally, not one step out of his boundaries, and every rare show of his smile made something flutter at the centre of his chest.

Shouyou is different. He treats everyone with the same earnestness and makes friends everywhere he goes, but there’s a subtle difference between people he holds close and people he’s simply friendly with. Shouyou is an electrifying force wherever he goes, and it’s difficult to look away from him even when he’s on _his_ side of the court. It’s something that he grapples to understand, that even when Shouyou is surrounded by so many, he still finds his way to his side like that’s never been a question on his mind. 

He’s entertained the image of being married by the age of thirty-five, maybe have two kids—a boy and a girl, with the boy being the older one so he can protect his sister from bullies—and a Shiba Inu running around in a large backyard, nosing a volleyball. His wife might be a volleyball player, or a sports coach, or someone he picked up at a café because she’s too cute not to. He has no idea when that had become Shouyou guiding his cooking endeavours in the kitchen, Shouyou peppering with him in their backyard on off-days, and Shouyou joining him as a taste tester for Osamu at Onigiri Miya. 

He actually _wants_. He’s never wanted anyone like this, and he has no idea what to do about it. Fear grips him by the throat when he considers what his parents would think, what his brother would think, what their teammates would think, or what his Inarizaki teammates would think if he brings a man with him and introduces him as his date. Nausea churns at the pit of his stomach, and he braces a hand against the bathroom wall for a second, inhaling deeply.

He scrubs his worries away, standing under the cold pelting water from the showerhead, and tries to clear his mind. It doesn’t matter, because nothing would happen between him and Shouyou anyway. He’s attracted to Shouyou just because he’s phenomenal on court, and he just has to get over it. 


	2. Chapter 2

They win the match against SVG Luneburg by the skin of their teeth. 

Atsumu’s been in love with setting ever since he heard Masahiko Inuhata say, “ _I’ll letcha hit it_ ” and did just that. Volleyball is cool, sure, but setting is the _coolest._ You’re the mastermind on court and you decide where the ball goes: the power is all in the hands of the setter, and that’s really the most incredible thing because everyone on court _has_ to put their trust in you. Atsumu’s a firm believer in the idea of reciprocity—if everyone pins their hope and faith on you, you damned well better deliver. It’s disappointing to realize that not everyone thinks the same way, though, and it was a harsh lesson he learnt in middle and high school.

Playing in the professional league is miles better, because people usually don’t half-ass their spikes or feints since they are, for whatever reasons that drive them, committed to the sport. Setting for people like Oliver, Sakusa, and Bokuto is fun, and Atsumu had thought that was enough until Shouyou came along.

Shouyou was subbed in the third set in place of Oliver and fell in place seamlessly, slamming down set after set and steadily digging powerful spikes from the opposing team. Playing against Shouyou had been exciting, but having him on his side of the court is _exhilarating_ : he opens up more possibilities with his versatile range of skills, and his hunger for volleyball—not even victory itself—his hunger to stay longer on the court, to prove that he’s _worthy_ to keep on court, is electrifying to witness. 

He doesn’t care what kind of set he gets: as long as he gets it, he _takes_ it, and he damned well smashes it down with the best of his ability. He’s an absolute predator on court, and it’s _thrilling_ to feel it for himself. Tobio had this monster with him for four years before he left, but Atsumu has no idea how long he can keep him by his side.

“He’s amazing, huh,” Inunaki remarks, dropping down on the empty seat next to Atsumu. The coaches have allowed them fifteen minutes to freshen up before they make their way back to the hotel, and the opposing team left after exchanging pleasantries at the end of the match.

Atsumu watches Shouyou slap a hand against Bokuto’s, grinning widely, and Bokuto lifts him by the waist easily and spins him around, the two of them laughing like two elementary kids on a school trip. There’s not a single shred of exhaustion he can spot on them both even after the three-hour match, the only sign of physical exertion being the sheen of perspiration on their necks and faces, reflecting off the fluorescent lights in the gymnasium.

“He is, isn’t he,” Atsumu says, eyes following Shouyou as he bounds over to Higuchi and Kyogo. “Two years in Brazil really did him good. I knew he’d go far, but he exceeded my expectations and more.”

“I’m actually surprised,” Inunaki says. “How much Hinata has changed you.”

Atsumu slants a look at Inunaki. “What do you mean?” He presses his towel to the side of his neck, arching a brow. “I haven’t changed.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way.” Inunaki tilts his head back, gulping down a mouthful of water. “ _You’ve gone soft now… like Hinata’s golden retriever with badly-bleached hair, or something_.”

“I’m not,” Atsumu replies in Japanese, even though Inunaki said the last part in English. He ignores the jab about his hair, too used to Inunaki’s antics. “I’m the same as I was when I first joined.”

“Oh please,” Inunaki says, rolling his eyes. He sets the bottle down between them and leans back on his palms. “You were a huge brat when you joined. I did notice you, y’know. We knew that you’re talented and full of promise. You were kept out of the main roster because some of the members couldn’t stand you and it’d have affected the team performance.” Inunaki laughs. “Imagine: you, a snotty little brat, going up to Hiroki-san and telling him to hit your sets like he means it when he was slowly being eased back into games after a long break because of his injury.”

Atsumu cringes at the memory. The venomous glares he received after were unforgettable. “I did learn my lesson after that, though. Kunihiro-san was _so_ pissed at me.”

“They are best friends,” Inunaki says, grinning. “What did you expect, brat?” He bumps his shoulder against Atsumu’s, nearly jostling him off the bench. Atsumu grips the edge of the bench and manages to stay on his seat, scowling. “It was a good change, but it must have been hard on you, huh.” Inunaki cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “Hinata, though… You’re different with him. I was right when I said he might be good for you!”

Something twists at the bottom of his belly, when he thinks about Shouyou. “I don’t think so.”

“Now, now, just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t!” Inunaki says, clapping on his back heartily. The hits sting, but Atsumu sighs and lets Inunaki do as he likes because he’d chase him down the gymnasium if he’d made a run for it, anyway, and he really doesn’t have the energy after the match. 

“Atsumu-san! Wan-san!” Shouyou has made his way over to them, grinning brightly, Bokuto following right behind. His black headband to keep his long hair out of the way has slid its way down to his brows. “What are y’all talking about?”

“How much of a brat Miya was back then,” Inunaki says, laughing when Atsumu shoots him a glare. 

Bokuto makes a sound of agreement, dropping his fist down on his open palm. “Oh, oh! I remember Tsum-Tsum warning me not to go into one of my emo moods when I first joined!”

“I was just giving you _friendly_ advice,” Atsumu says, scrunching up his nose.

Inunaki snorts disbelievingly. “Nasty personality, you see.”

“Atsumu-san is really nice now!” Shouyou steps forward and brushes his fingers against Atsumu’s fringe. Atsumu tilts his head back slightly, staring up at Shouyou, chest tight and breath caught in his throat. Shouyou sweeps his fringe to his right, just how he likes it. “He still has a bad temper, though!” Shouyou lowers his eyes to meet Atsumu’s, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is quirked fondly. Atsumu’s heart stutters in his chest, and he looks away as Shouyou’s hand leaves his hair, face warm, meeting the incredulous stares of Bokuto and Inunaki.

Inunaki arches a brow. “You let him _touch_ your _hair_ when it’s not during a game?” 

A knot twists at the bottom of his belly. “What’s the big deal? Y’all touch my hair all the time.”

“No, we don’t,” Bokuto says slowly. His owlish eyes are hyperfocused on Atsumu, and it’s an unnaturally shrewd look on his face. Atsumu tries not to squirm under Bokuto’s scrutiny, turning away to grab his bottle under the bench while studiously avoiding Shouyou’s eyes. “You never let us touch your hair off the court.”

Atsumu sees Inunaki reaching out from his periphery then, and he slides to the end of the bench instinctively, bottle poised near his head to block his hand. Inunaki’s hand drops back down by his side. “See?” Inunaki grins widely, absolutely _glowing_ at having proved his point. Atsumu wants to hit him so bad. “So what are you guys now—Best friends? Is this a best friend privilege?”

“I thought I was _your_ best friend,” Bokuto says. He doesn’t sound upset, though, and he still has that odd look on his face as he continues staring at Atsumu like he’s seeing something for the first time. Atsumu focuses on drinking his water, and tries to ignore the discomfort and unease crawling under his skin like thousands and thousands of disgusting insects. 

Inunaki exhales dramatically. “What’s a man to do, Bokuto? You’ve clearly been replaced.”

Bokuto and Inunaki engage in a childish squabble about how best friends can’t be switched out _just like that_ , and Atsumu sets his bottle down on the bench, grateful for the diversion of attention, and chances a look at Shouyou, who’s been conspicuously silent all this time. His brows are scrunched together as he stares at Atsumu, and Atsumu itches to smooth it over for him.

“Miya!” Foster’s waving him over near the net with Akihiko and Meian by his side, and Atsumu nods and stands from the bench, drawn to his full height in front of Shouyou. He’s still not saying anything, though, and Atsumu sighs.

“Stop frownin’, Shouyou-kun,” he drawls, stepping forward and pressing his hands to the sides of Shouyou’s face. His skin is sticky from sweat, but Atsumu can’t bring himself to care. “What’s wrong?” His fingers skim upwards to the headband that’s clinging low on Shouyou’s brows, sliding it back up above Shouyou’s forehead. He has no idea how Shouyou can stand it—isn’t it uncomfortable?

His hair is now pushed back with the headband, revealing his clean, sweat-slick forehead and his pretty bright eyes. Atsumu thinks he looks exceptionally good like this. “I didn’t know you don’t like people touching your hair.”

“It’s fine if it’s you,” Atsumu says unthinkingly. Red blooms across Shouyou’s cheeks, and Atsumu feels the heat rising rapidly up his neck the moment his words catch up to him. Stupid, stupid Atsumu. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He clears his throat, heart squeezing at the way Shouyou’s looking at him, and he drops his hands from Shouyou’s face, sure they have been lingering for a few seconds too long. “Gotta go—they are callin’ for me.”

Shouyou nods his head jerkily, and Atsumu looks away, meeting Bokuto’s eyes. Bokuto has the odd, perceptive look on his face again, and queasiness settles at the pit of his stomach. He plasters a smile on his face and waves to Bokuto and Inunaki before he hurriedly jogs off to where the coaches and Meian are waiting.

_It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just an attraction. It will pass._

🏐

The bus ride back to the hotel is filled with spirited chatterings, fuelled by the victory on the first official day of their Germany expedition. It’s a good start to the week and a tremendous boost to the team morale. They have a truly strong line-up for the season, and it’s showing in the results. He even caught the conservative old geezer smiling once during the break in-between games while he’s conversing with Foster; the team’s always gunning for champion, of course, but this season feels different—more hopeful, and Atsumu wonders if it’s because they have Shouyou, on top of Sakusa’s successful recruitment into the team.

Shouyou’s eyes are closed, slumping sideways in his seat, neck bent at an odd angle. The evening sun spills golden light over his face, and the rays brush-paint his hair a beautiful, fiery orange. Everyone’s preoccupied at the front, talking about the insanely tall players and their powerful spikes, and Atsumu steals another glance at Shouyou, looking nearly ethereal in his serenity, bathed under the evening sun. There's the subtlest hint of orange-brown in the long lashes splayed unevenly over his high cheekbones under the light.

Atsumu's chest tightens, an ineffable warmth flooding the blood in his veins. He shifts closer to Shouyou so their arms are nearly touching. The bus hits a bump, jostling Shouyou in his sleep, and his head drops onto Atsumu’s shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, though, chest steadily rising and falling with every slow breath.

 _Shouyou-kun is…_ It’s surreal, having him so close by his side. Atsumu slides a gentle hand up the side of Shouyou’s face, thumb brushing against his headband, and curls possessive fingers into his soft, sunlit hair. The want aches especially painful today, eating into the center of his chest, and Atsumu withdraws his hand, careful not to wake him.

He sucks in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering close, and tries not to think about golden hair and blazing brown eyes. 

🏐

Atsumu’s mindlessly refreshing the instagram page on his bed when Shouyou enters the room, and Atsumu’s slightly surprised that Bokuto’s voice doesn’t follow after him.

“You’re back.” Atsumu flops on his stomach, watching Shouyou hang up his outerwear in the wardrobe as he hums in response. Shouyou had went ahead to play pool with Bokuto and Sakusa after the routine debriefing along with Inunaki and Thomas who wanted to tag along, and he had weaseled out of it because he can’t play games that involves sticks or rackets of any kind for _nuts_ and he doesn’t need anyone to know that. “Where’s Bokkun?”

“He went back to take a shower,” Shouyou says, padding towards his open luggage to grab a clean set of clothes. “Said he’d come find us later for a bit. Maybe with Omi-san, too!”

“So didcha win?” Atsumu asks, propping his chin on his fist.

Shouyou pulls a face, and Atsumu laughs. “No way I did with Tomás and Wan-san around!” He pulls out his wallet from his pocket and waves it in the air with a grin that splits his cheeks. “Bokuto-san, Omi-san, and I watched them play though, and I betted on Tomás!”

“You gambled?” Atsumu pulls the most offended expression he can muster. “Without me?! You could’ve text me, Shouyou-kun!”

“Yeah, I should have—I’m sorry.” Shouyou’s eyes twinkle mischievously, and Atsumu already knows whatever’s coming out of his mouth next can’t be good. “I’d have won by picking the person you _didn’t_ bet on.”

“Come on, Shouyou-kun!” Atsumu doesn’t even bother keeping the whine out of his voice, and Shouyou’s mouth curves, left cheek dimpling, before he leaves for the bathroom. 

Atsumu’s still smiling when he flips over on his back and goes back to scrolling through his instagram page. 

A new instastory pops up from the _Onigiri Miya_ account when he refreshes the page randomly, and he taps into it almost immediately. It’s an image of a food truck, the flap on the side lifted to reveal a chalkboard menu with different flavoured onigiris handwritten hanging from the top. Osamu’s posing in the middle, leaning over the counter with his reserved-for-business grin that makes Atsumu’s goosebumps rise. The caption reads: _Onigiri Miya coming over to you now! Swipe up to see the locations we’ll be dropping by!_

“Fake,” Atsumu says. His tongue peeks out from the corner of his mouth as he taps out a reply, _i want everything there except for the gross mannequin in the middle what’s that_

Osamu’s reply is almost instantaneous: _fuck off to germany_

“Who are you talking to?” Shouyou’s voice comes from above him, and Atsumu startles, yelping when the phone slips from his fingers and smacks down right on his face. Nose stinging (though not as much as his pride), he grimaces as he swipes his phone off his face. Shouyou’s looking down at him, grinning widely, water dripping from the curled ends of his damp hair. 

“Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu complains, sitting up immediately and turning on his ass so he’s facing Shouyou. Shouyou’s mouth is still slanted, looking very much amused. “Can ya _not_ sneak up on me like that?”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t notice me.” Shouyou rubs the towel over his wet hair absently. It’s the turquoise blue towel given by his sister before he moved into the apartment building, and Atsumu thinks it’s nice how close they are, even though they are at very different phases of their lives. “Who were you texting? You were smiling.”

Atsumu taps out an equally rude reply to Osamu, then tosses the phone to the side. “It’s ‘Samu. He finally started the mobile food truck that I told ya ‘bout.” He pats on the empty space beside him. “C’mere. I will dry yer hair for ya.”

Shouyou perks up, dropping down next to Atsumu immediately. Atsumu takes the towel from Shouyou and gets on his knees, shifting himself so he’s behind Shouyou. It’s strange, how he’s doing something for Shouyou but he actually feels… _happy,_ like he’s been granted some privilege to dry Shouyou’s hair for him, when Shouyou complies without protest. 

He wonders if he lets anyone else do it for him. The thought tangles into an ugly, angry emotion at the centre of his chest. He tries to shove it to the back of his mind, and focuses on blotting the excess liquid from Shouyou’s hair with the towel.

“When’s the food truck gonna go around?” Shouyou asks, after a moment of silence. 

Atsumu presses a section of his hair between the towel, humming thoughtfully. "I think probably mid October?"

"I wanna drop by!" Shouyou says brightly. "The onigiris taste really good!"

"Oh, no." Atsumu shakes his head, then realizes Shouyou can't see him. " _No_ ," he says, as forcefully as possible. Osamu would ruin whatever impression Shouyou has of him. "No. I'll—ya can have free onigiris whenever, Shouyou-kun. Ya don't hafta go over specially for that."

"Why?" He can hear the frown in his voice, and he knows he's misunderstood. "I mean—if it's a trouble, I won't be there!"

"That's not what I meant," Atsumu says, exasperated, fingers massaging into Shouyou's scalp absently. When can Shouyou _ever_ be a nuisance, really? "I just.. Ugh, 'Samu can be a handful. I'll bring ya over to meet him one day."

Before Shouyou has mustered a response, Bokuto bursts in, Sakusa and Inunaki following closely behind.

Inunaki arches a brow, pausing briefly at the door. "Best friends level, certified, then." It's only then Atsumu realizes he's halfway through drying Shouyou's hair, and the three of them are looking at him oddly. They don't comment any further, though, and Atsumu goes back to focusing on the next section of Shouyou's hair as they make themselves home on the floor. 

Sakusa hovers behind Inunaki and Bokuto, looking like he might die if he actually has to take the floor, and Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Just take the bed, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa grunts out his thanks as he sits on the edge of Atsumu’s bed. "I bathed," he says, like _anyone_ needs any reassurance that Sakusa is clean. Sakusa, _dirty_? Atsumu shudders at the very thought of it. 

"Did you not lock the door?" Atsumu asks Shouyou, sighing.

"Sorry," Shouyou says, and Atsumu can hear the sheepish grin in his voice. "I left it unlocked because I didn't know when they'd arrive."

"I have these!" Bokuto brandishes a plastic bag that's straining towards the bottom, seated cross-legged on the floor with Inunaki. "Beer! Two packs!"

" _Two_ packs?!" Atsumu exclaims, eyeing them warily. "Where didcha even get these?"

"Does it matter?" Inunaki asks, as he rips out the cans from the cardboard packaging and dumps the bag on the floor. "One each. Even Hinata!"

Shouyou accepts his can without protest, and he takes Atsumu's for him in his left hand. “We shouldn’t drink too much,” he says. “We have a game tomorrow.”

“We won’t!” Bokuto promises brightly, cracking his can open. “We leave those nights for the last day!”

"Don't spill it," Atsumu warns them, blotting Shouyou's hair between the towel. He doesn’t want to be reminded about the amount of alcohol these monsters drink on the so-called ‘last day’s of their overseas expeditions, especially since he always ends up drinking more than he originally intended to. He's given them too much blackmail material to last him for a lifetime. "I'll join y'all in a bit. Shouyou-kun's a kid with his hair."

Bokuto's eyeing him as he downs the first gulp with Inunaki, Sakusa, and Shouyou, and the fact that he's withheld any comments unnerves Atsumu. Greatly. He has no idea what Bokuto is thinking, and that freaks him out.

"I'm not a kid," Shouyou says. "I can't help if you want to baby me."

"Well," Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. "Sho-baby is a huge handful." He tugs on Shouyou's hair, though without real force, and Shouyou lands a smack down on his hand. It doesn't sting, not really, especially since Shouyou's fingers are curling around his wrist afterward. "I guess y'all baby Shouyou-kun like that all the time."

"No," Bokuto answers quietly, and the look in his eyes is awfully astute; this expression is rarely seen off the court, and Atsumu doesn't know what to make of it. "He's only a baby with you."

Shouyou's fingers are still pressed against the thrumming beat under the skin of his wrist, but they are tighter now, like they're afraid Atsumu would run away—it's entirely ridiculous, especially since leaving Shouyou is the last thing on his mind right now.

Atsumu inhales deeply and wrenches his gaze away from Bokuto's uncharacteristically serious expression to the towel in his hands. 

"It really is, isn't it," Sakusa says, after a thoughtful pause. "Hinata's never really like that with us."

"So," Inunaki says, mouth quirked. "I guess Bokuto's place isn't usurped after all. Atsumu and Shouyou are just boyfriends?"

Atsumu goes still, an uncomfortable crawling sensation burrowing into his bones. Shouyou's fingers slip from his wrist when the silence stretches on for too long, curling into the fabric of his pants instead. 

"I'm joking! There’s no need to look so serious!" Inunaki throws his head back, laughing, and it shatters the sudden, odd silence. "You're fixing Hinata's headband one moment and drying his hair next, it's just—I don't know, are you gonna kneel in front of him next and call him your master?"

"I can't do everything, can I," Atsumu says, slipping a careful, teasing lilt in his voice even as nausea churns in his abdomen. He resumes his ministrations, rubbing the towel over Shouyou's hair, and ignores the urge to pull away from Shouyou. "Do ya want me to, Shouyou-sama?"

Shouyou rests Atsumu's unopened can of beer on his lap, and his grip is so tight his knuckles are white. "If I say yes, would you?"

 _Yes,_ Atsumu thinks, and he's surprised by how readily the answer comes to him. It's ridiculous.

"If ya pay me enough," Atsumu says lightly instead. Shouyou's a free crow who probably never lets himself be tied down, only setting his sights on what’s above and ahead of him; he doesn’t think about staying, nor does he think about slowing his pace. And what even is Atsumu to him? His gut twists, feeling slightly sick at the thought of it, and he shoves it to the back of his mind to address Bokuto instead. "Didn’tcha have a call with Keiji-kun?"

"Yeah," Bokuto replies. "Later. Akaashi has too much work." He swallows another gulp of beer. "I hope he's eating proper meals. He doesn't cook when he's by himself, and he eats too much instant food."

Atsumu presses another section of hair between the towel, chuckling. "Worry some more and I'm gonna start thinking y'all are dating."

"I know." Inunaki shakes his head, then downs another mouthful of beer. "This is probably why you're still single, Bokuto. Girls think you prefer Akaashi over them.”

"Maybe I do," Bokuto replies without missing a beat, and he grins unabashedly when Shouyou snorts out an inelegant laughter, top of his head brushing against Atsumu's chin as his body shakes with amusement.

Atsumu doesn't even bother to ask at this point, convinced there's some kind of long running joke shared between them that somehow involves Keiji as Bokuto's boyfriend. He pulls the towel off Shouyou's head, ruffling his hair affectionately. "All done, Shouyou-kun!"

"Thank you!" Shouyou says, tilting his head back and crinkling his eyes into half-crescent moons. Atsumu flushes, flashing him an answering grin, then slides off the bed to hang the towel dry at the back of the chair.

"Think we're gonna take the next game too?" Inunaki asks. 

Bokuto gulps down another mouthful of beer. "As long as we play our best!"

Atsumu pads back to join the circle on the ground, taking the empty space beside Shouyou who’s already seated next to Bokuto. He slings an easy arm over Shouyou’s shoulder and jerks his chin over to Sakusa on the bed. “Isn’t it lucky we got these two this season?”

“We have a deep and strong line-up this season.” Inunaki chugs down the last of his beer and leans over Bokuto to grab another can from the plastic bag. “As long as we don’t fuck anything up, we’ve definitely got a good chance for V League championship this season.” He cracks open the new can. “ _And_ properly beat Adlers for Kurowashiki!”

Shouyou’s staring at Inunaki with a mildly fascinated look on his face, and Atsumu rests his weight against Shouyou’s arm, his warmth seeping under his skin. “Alcohol is water to him,” Atsumu whispers in his ear, and he feels Shouyou shiver against him. “He’s insane when he gets going. Don’t ever drink with him alone if you can.”

“I don’t drink much in the first place,” Shouyou replies. “It’s unhealthy!”

Atsumu stifles a laugh, because that’s really what he should’ve expected. 

“That’s only if the Adlers doesn’t lose in the semi-finals this time,” Sakusa’s voice deadpans, bringing Atsumu back to the conversation. 

Inunaki laughs. “Are you trash talking now, Sakusa?” He drinks from the can again. “Our opponent for tomorrow is the Recycling Volleys, not the Adlers!”

“I know,” Sakusa says, staring down at the beer wrapped in his hands. He finally unhooks one side of his mask, and it sways loosely as it remains hanging on his left ear. “I’m just saying.”

“Yer college team got obliterated by them in the second or third round last year, right?” Atsumu ignores the glare Sakusa shoots at him, and the rest of them laugh. Shouyou’s still pressed against him, and he can feel Shouyou’s elbow digging into his side as form of warning, but Atsumu grins unrepentantly. “Technically ya could’ve gone against ‘em for Kurowashiki…” Sakusa looks grumpy about that because there's an overly determined look on his face as he takes his first sip of beer, and promptly screws his face up in disgust. “Is that yer first time drinking beer, Omi-Omi?!”

“Shut up,” Sakusa snaps, a scowl crossing his mouth. He twists the can in his hand, then asks: “Why didn’t the coaches put me in?”

It must have bothered Sakusa more than any of them had thought, because Atsumu hadn’t expected Sakusa to ask.

“The team dynamics, probably,” Inunaki answers thoughtfully, after a pause. “Everyone was playing really well together. If we throw in a new element mid-way, it could break the momentum. The coaches probably didn’t want to risk it. It’s definitely nothing personal, Sakusa-kun.”

“Yeah, Omi-kun!” Bokuto pipes up, nodding his head fervently. His cheeks are already slightly flushed, even though he’s not finished with his first can of beer. “We’ve all seen your games! You are amazing! It’s definitely not because we don’t trust you or anything!”

“We practiced really hard together since the season started.” Atsumu opens his can of beer. “I can feel it for this season. We have a good chance!”

“How inspiring!” Inunaki laughs, then clinks his can against Atsumu’s. “Drink up, Miya!”

Atsumu obediently swallows a mouthful, the beer warming his insides when it flows down his throat. 

“We bumped into Kyogo-kun while on the way here,” Inunaki starts conversationally. Atsumu groans, not liking where this is going, taking another swig of beer.

“Karma _,_ ” Shouyou says under his breath, and it’s Atsumu’s turn to elbow Shouyou in his ribs even though he’s grinning. Shouyou’s shaking with silent laughter next to him, and Inunaki seems to think they are being a bunch of dumb idiots because he merely rolls his eyes.

“ _Anyway_ , like I was saying, Kyogo-kun was very interested to know where we were all heading to.” Inunaki grins widely. Atsumu's brow twitches: as much as he liked Kyogo’s flat-out admiration of him at the beginning, it can get pretty overwhelming sometimes. He doesn't think he has the energy to deal with that tonight. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything much. I just thought it’s funny how much he idolizes you.”

“I really wonder why,” Sakusa says, but he’s smirking—the one Atsumu’s learned means he’s just teasing. It also has his eyes crinkling a bit at the sides funnily, so Atsumu has no idea how anyone can ever think Sakusa’s scary. 

“It’s just because y’all fail to see how cool I am!” Atsumu says huffily. 

“I think you’re cool, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto says brightly.

Inunaki laughs. “Who do you think _isn’t_ cool?”

There’s a sudden rap on the door that cuts into their conversation, and everyone jumps. 

“Who is it?” Atsumu asks in a hushed whisper. 

“How the fuck would I know,” Inunaki whispers back. “Someone go check the peep-hole! Please don’t tell me it’s Akihiko!” Inunaki mutters an expletive. “Hide the beer, hide the beer!”

As all of them hurry to hide the beer in the wardrobe, the person at the door knocks again, this time louder. “I can hear y’all!”

“Oh.” Inunaki sighs in relief, recognizing the voice almost immediately. “It’s just Hiroki-san.” 

Atsumu presses his lips together, and says nothing. Inunaki jerks his chin for Atsumu to open the door, and Atsumu thinks he must be making quite an expression because Inunaki doesn’t press him further and gestures for Shouyou to go ahead instead.

“Evening, Hiroki-san!” Shouyou greets brightly when he opens the door. “Why are you here?”

Atsumu’s peeking from the wall as the rest of them huddle near the table, out of view. It’s fucking ridiculous how four grown men are hiding in the corner just because they are afraid of getting into trouble. He tries to stifle his laughter, tickled by the absurdity of the situation even if it’s Hiroki at the door, but it escapes as a snort that comes out too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It triggers a chain effect at the back, because Bokuto accidentally sniggers out loud, then tries to cover up with a ridiculously loud sneeze. Inunaki’s face turns the reddest he’s ever seen as he claps his hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Even Sakusa’s mouth is twitching at the corners, and he doesn’t look like he can hold in any longer.

“I can hear _all of you, just_ so you know,” Hiroki says from the door, sounding amused. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to catch anyone in the act. I’m just here to tell y’all that I heard from a little birdie that Coach Akihiko _may_ be walking around on our level tonight, so don’t be too loud and get caught.” Atsumu pokes his head out from behind the wall again, and bows to Hiroki sheepishly. Hiroki smiles kindly at him. “Please don’t poke any more heads from there; I’m just gonna pretend I don’t know anything.”

He lowers his voice as he continues talking to Shouyou, then nods his head and smiles before he leaves.

“That,” Inunaki says the moment the door clicks shut, “was stupid.”

Everyone bursts into laughter this time—save for Sakusa, whose mouth is curved so wide it can’t be passed for his usual taunting smirk—and it’s a while before the laughter dies down as they all scramble out of their hiding spots.

“What did Hiroki-san say?” Bokuto asks Shouyou, still grinning.

“He’s really just warning us. He came from Kunihiro-san’s room and bumped into Meian-san, who told him about Coach Akihiko.”

“I can’t believe I’m still hiding from adults when _I_ am an adult,” Inunaki grumbles, stalking over to retrieve the cans of beer with Shouyou as the rest of them gather around in a circle again, with Sakusa taking the bed. 

They are quiet as Inunaki distributes the beer when he settles into his seat, passing Sakusa a new unopened one without asking. A look of surprise crosses Sakusa’s face as he thanks Inunaki, who waves his thanks away. 

“I didn’t know you’re still scared of Hiroki-san,” Inunaki says, finally taking an already opened can of beer for himself.

“I’m not scared of him,” Atsumu says, shifting uneasily in his seat. “Just… awkward.”

“What happened?” Sakusa asks.

Inunaki doesn’t answer, and Atsumu realizes Inunaki’s giving him the choice of closing the topic if he doesn’t want to talk about it. He sighs. “Well, I wasn’t very likable when I first joined the team.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Inunaki says. “Don’t be a drama queen. You were just benched most of the time.”

“How does that sound any better?” Atsumu asks, and Inunaki shrugs his shoulders. “Anyway, I couldn’t really mix with the team when I first joined, and I fell short of expectations, I guess. Then I stepped out of line with Hiroki-san, which worsened things.”

"More than not mixing with the team, I think it’s more of you not being your own person." Inunaki takes a mouthful of his beer, then eyes Atsumu contemplatively over the rim of the can. "When you first started, it felt like you were looking for someone to balance you out and cover for your crazy antics—and this was when you were still new and we barely trusted you, even though we knew you're good." Inunaki cleans off the last of his beer and grabs another can from the bag. "If you'd pulled that shit now, though, we wouldn't have minded because we know you and you _are_ part of the team."

Atsumu doesn't want to be reminded of how lost and insecure he’d felt without Osamu around, how much he’d missed Aran and his jokes, or how he’d waited for a snarky remark when he fucked up, then realized Suna wasn’t there any longer. 

He struggled _hard_ adjusting without them on the team when they'd been there with him ever since volleyball became a huge part of his life. It was frustrating to learn that Osamu had plugged more gaps than he was aware of, and how unwittingly reliant he was on him. He had to put in triple, quadruple, the effort to make up for it, and it's impossible to count the number of times he hated Osamu for it even though he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

"... I wasn't used to playin' without 'Samu," Atsumu says quietly. Shouyou's pressed against him arm-to-arm, and there's a strange comfort in his quiet presence. "He was always there to cover for me."

"Some of us realized that after a while." Inunaki takes another opened can of beer. "We left you alone because it felt like you weren't ready to play on your own. You played like your twin was still here, and it wouldn't have helped the team." He sighs. "It didn't help when you confronted Hiroki-san and told him he wasn't giving his all." 

"Hiroki-san was recovering from an injury back then." Atsumu tries not to cringe as the memory comes back to him. He remembers Hiroki's dead eyes as he stared back at him, and Kunihiro's disbelieving expression that quickly morphed into such an intense look of disdain (and possibly hate) he was surprised he didn't slam a ball right in his face. "I didn't know and thought he wasn't trying hard enough to bait the opposing team. So…" He trails off, and he thinks that's answer enough. 

"I thought you were such a dick," Inunaki says bluntly. “But you’ve gotten better, now, of course.”

"Isn't he one still?" Sakusa remarks, snorting, and everyone laughs. 

The conversation is steered to lighter subjects as they gossip about their coaches and how Ushijima was caught leaving a bar with a woman just last week by the tabloids, and from the angle of the photograph he looked as if he’d actually _kissed_ her before he sent her off in a cab. 

Bokuto and Sakusa both look confused at the news, and it turns out (unshockingly) that they don't keep up with gossip like that. Shouyou promptly pulls out his phone to tap into a tabloid page, though, and passes his phone over to Bokuto and Sakusa. Everyone scrunches up their faces as they imagine Ushijima dating.

"Nope, nope!" Atsumu shakes his head and finishes off his beer. Everything is vaguely more unfocused now, though his mind remains oddly sharp. "He can't possibly be dating!"

"Why?" Bokuto hands the phone back to Shouyou before he turns to rifle through the bag to get a new can from the second beer pack. "I wouldn't be surprised!"

Sakusa lifts a brow at him archly, then sips his beer. Atsumu feels slightly floaty as he squints at the can of beer in Sakusa's hand and tries to figure out if he's still on his first.

"I mean," Atsumu starts, then pauses, frowning. He makes a half-assed gesture, then leans back against Shouyou, dropping his head down on his shoulder. "I don't know, it's weird to think of him _dating._ He looks like he'd marry volleyball if it's possible!" He closes his eyes and inhales; Shouyou's familiar scent rushes up to his nose. "... Kinda like Shouyou-kun, actually."

"I can see the resemblance," Inunaki says, snickering. "What's your type, Hinata? Mikasa?"

Atsumu buries his face into the curve of Hinata's shoulder, laughing, and he can feel Hinata shaking under him with laughter. 

"Good one, Wan-san!" Bokuto cheers, slapping a hi-five with Inunaki. Atsumu can even hear Sakusa snorting.

Shouyou shifts a bit under Atsumu, then stills when Atsumu makes a sound of protest and loops an arm around Shouyou's so he can snuggle in more comfortably. Gentle fingers card through his hair, lightly scraping against his scalp, and Atsumu barely suppresses the strangest impulse to moan at the pleasant tingles it sends down his spine. 

"Mikasa would be the first choice," Shouyou agrees good-naturedly, and Atsumu smiles at the grin he hears in his voice. Shouyou's hand pulls away from Atsumu's head as he hums thoughtfully. Atsumu bites back a whine. "But I don't have a type. What matters is if I like the person or not!"

"Really?" Sakusa asks. "Wouldn't you want someone who loves volleyball like you do?"

"Of course that'd be best!"

Atsumu tightens his arms around Shouyou's. _What about me?_ He wants to ask. He's not drunk enough to ask such a stupid question though, so he keeps his eyes screwed shut and focuses on the scent of fresh coconuts and citrus detergent. 

"I have a friend who plays on the national team," Inunaki says. "She's very cute and plays libero. Want me to introduce you?"

Atsumu stiffens. Something sour clogs at the base of his throat. There’s a sudden urge to throw a pack of beer in Inunaki's face. Maybe he won't suggest stupid things when he's unconscious.

"Why didn't you date her?" Bokuto asks, before Shouyou can answer. There's the sound of a new can being opened, but Atsumu has no idea who's still drinking. Probably Inunaki. Or Bokuto.

Inunaki laughs. "Think she has a thing for opposites. I'm a libero. I don't think I'm her type."

"That's stupid!" The unexpected outburst from Shouyou has Atsumu pulling away to look at Shouyou, and he squints against the sudden brightness of the room. "Ah! I'm sorry, Wan-san, I didn't mean to be rude! I meant—"

"No, no, it _is_ stupid," Atsumu says, resting his arm on Shouyou’s shoulder. _Take her and stop bothering Shouyou with it._

Shouyou sighs. "Atsumu-san…" 

"Quiet, Shouyou-kun," Atsumu says in a low whisper meant only for Shouyou, though his eyes remain fixed on Inunaki. His fingers curl possessively around the base of Shouyou’s neck, pressing lightly above a thrumming pulse; there’s a sharp intake of breath, but Shouyou doesn’t move away from him, and he takes it as a win. The ugly, coiled _something_ in his chest loosens a little. "Why don’t ya go for her yerself? You’re gonna regret it if she meets someone else."

Bokuto is frowning. "Yeah! Wouldn't you be sad if she gets married?"

"You would," Sakusa says.

It's ridiculous how the three of them are on the same page, Atsumu realizes, and he wonders if he's had too much as he looks down and realizes he's only had three cans.

"No more," Shouyou whispers, cutting into his thoughts. "I already gave you mine."

Atsumu juts out his bottom lip petulantly at Shouyou, hand dropping back down by his side. "I swear I'm not feeling it! At all!" 

Shouyou shakes his head, face flushed even though he hasn’t had much alcohol. " _No_ , Atsumu-san. Can't do without my setter playing at his best tomorrow." Shouyou pats Atsumu's cheek lightly with his fingers, a cute dimpled grin curving his mouth, and looks away to Inunaki before Atsumu can protest that he can play _perfectly_ , alcohol or not. "So, Wan-san! Why didn't you try?"

His cheek is left tingling warm in the wake of Shouyou's fingers, and he only realizes he's smiling when he catches his reflection on the metal surface of the beer can. It promptly slinks away from his face. 

"Y'all are brats," Inunaki remarks, though there's no bite to it. He rolls his eyes. "It won't work out. She's like a sister to me."

"Aw." Bokuto looks so disappointed one would think it's _his_ love story. "Aren't relationships born from friendships the best?"

"Sure," Inunaki agrees easily. "But that's a hit-or-miss thing." He gulps down more of his beer, then turns to Shouyou. "So? Interested?"

Atsumu tamps down a spike of annoyance even though he knows Inunaki means well. It’s not as if Shouyou’s his… _anything._ He flicks the pull-tab of the beer with his thumb, tension working up his jaw as he waits for Shouyou's reply.

"Wan-san, that's really nice, but I think I wanna focus on volleyball for now," Shouyou says apologetically. 

Atsumu wraps his hands around his can of beer, taut lines of his shoulders slowly relaxing.

"Can't say I didn't expect that." Inunaki shrugs, gesturing for them to clink their cans together with the exception of Shouyou. "It's really all volleyball with you, Hinata. Not a bad thing, though!"

Atsumu only realizes his can is empty when only a drip of beer gets on his tongue. He blinks and looks down at his reflection on top of his can, fascinated by how his face is oddly warped by the lighting and curve of the surface. Shouyou laughs at something Bokuto—Sakusa? Inunaki?—is saying, the bright timbre of his laughter pulling Atsumu's attention away from his present fixation, and he's _so_ _close_ Atsumu can feel the heat of his body, but he's not leaning back against him at all…

When Atsumu opens his eyes again, the room is conspicuously quiet. He squints against the orange lighting and then, realizes quite abruptly, that his head's pillowed on a pair of strong, muscled thighs. 

His ribs constrict around his thumping heart, and he blinks up to see Shouyou frowning at something on a page of a manga volume he’s reading; it’s not _One Piece_ like he thought it was, but Shouyou still looks awfully focused on whatever’s happening. He’s wearing a white headband now, sloppily pushed up against his hair, and there are a few stray strands of hair hanging in front of his eyes.

“Did someone die?” Atsumu asks, voice rough from sleep, when it feels like Shouyou hasn’t moved on from the same page in ages. Shouyou’s muscles twitch under his head as he lowers his book to look at Atsumu, his eyes a soft, pretty mud brown. Atsumu swallows around the lump in his throat and rests the back of his hand over his eyes. “Ya have been on the same page for a while.”

“Oh!” Shouyou shifts again. “I was, uh, thinking about something.” 

Atsumu hums. “What’s the time now?” 

There’s a brief pause before Shouyou answers: “Nearly twelve.”

“That’s _way_ past yer bedtime!” Atsumu sits up in a flash, mortified that he made Shouyou break his golden rule that he’s religiously abided by for the past two years, and turns so he’s facing Shouyou. “Ya should’ve woke me up!”

Shouyou blinks owlishly back at Atsumu. Then, slowly, a smile unfurls across the length of his lips, and he tilts his head to the side with a soft slant of his eyes and, _fuck_ , Atsumu’s heart is a hummingbird caged in his ribs, utterly enraptured.

“You were sleeping very soundly.” It’s… too much, the way Shouyou is looking so fondly, so tenderly at him, and it’s going to make Atsumu hope for something that Shouyou wouldn’t be able to give. Even _he_ himself doesn’t think he’s capable of asking for. Atsumu’s gaze drops to the manga volume that Shouyou’s balancing on his left hand instead, heart pounding too loudly in his ears. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You’re too nice, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, throat tight. Unbidden cursed warmth floods his veins, despite himself. He gets up and pads towards the bathroom, avoiding Shouyou's eyes. “I’m gonna go wash up now. Don’t wait for me and go to sleep.”

“Okay!” Shouyou replies brightly, blissfully unaware of Atsumu’s inner turmoil. He wonders, gut twisting queasily at the pit of his stomach, how Shouyou would behave if he knows how much he wants to kiss him. “Goodnight, Atsumu-san!”

“Night.”

The lights are already off when Atsumu steps out of the bathroom, left with the dim glow of the bedside lamps. He crawls into bed as quietly as possible, turns to face the wall, and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder. 

He only falls asleep when the volleyballs he’s been counting reaches over a thousand. 

🏐

The next few days of practice matches come and go. They lost some, won more, and reviewed every single match with the coaches after a gruelling day of practice. The coaches play around with the line-up occasionally, switching them in and out, but Atsumu thinks he gets a sense of who the coaches are looking to put in for V League already. 

They are playing against Lycurgus today for their last and final match in Germany: a Netherlands-based volleyball team that won the Dutch championship about two years back. They had huddled in the meeting room last night watching some replays of their matches, and a bunch of them are extremely tall players packing great offensive power—kinda like playing against five Oliver Barnes, or something. 

_Disgusting_ , he thinks, not without excitement.

It seems like Bokuto and Shouyou share the sentiment, the two of them doing their usual stretches together with matching grins on their faces as they share a hushed conversation. 

“Keep looking at him like that and I will start thinking he’s your Akaashi,” Inunaki says, and Atsumu snaps his head back, surprised, having not noticed Inunaki’s presence beside him with the commotion from the arrival of the opposing team.

“ _What_?” There’s a sick churning in Atsumu’s stomach as he bends forward on his left knee. He flicks a glance over, sees the tilt of Inunaki’s mouth, and realizes belatedly that he’s joking. Exhaling under his breath, he rolls his eyes, and says, “Yeah, very funny.”

“You’re getting easier and easier to rile up, Miya!” Inunaki shakes his head, grinning. “Hinata’s making you way more fun!”

“ _Please_ ,” Atsumu mutters, not amused at all. He fixes his gaze resolutely forward at the opposing team clad in blue jerseys and shorts, and ignores the lingering queasiness in his abdomen.

Sakusa snorts on the other side of him, and Atsumu shoots him a glare. Sakusa arches a challenging brow at him, and for some reason, even with his face half-hidden, he still looks intimidating as fuck. Atsumu decides that he probably shouldn’t piss Sakusa off for now. He wouldn’t put it past him to spike a ball to the back of his head for the fun of it.

“Oh, Thomas!” Inunaki waves him over, and they look over to see Thomas scanning around the huge hall at one of the entrance doors; he had begged off to the toilet when they first arrived, looking a bit pale in the face. Thomas’ lost expression clears when he spots Inunaki’s enthusiastic waving, jogging over to them with a grin on his boyish face.

“They are so tall!” Thomas exclaims when he reaches them. He makes a vague gesture with his hands to emphasize their height.

“ _You_ are insanely tall, Thomas,” Inunaki says dryly, looking up at Thomas. The height difference between them is so comical Atsumu has to stifle a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re being surprised about.”

“Everyone we played from day one has been tall as fuck,” Atsumu says, grabbing his bottle from the ground and squirting a jet of water down his throat. “It doesn’t matter. We just gotta play our best.”

“Yeah!” Shouyou’s voice has Atsumu’s heart leaping to his throat, catching him by surprise, as he reaches them with Bokuto by his side. His usual black headband is holding his fringe up, a pinkish tinge to his cheeks. His eyes are alight with excitement. “Let’s all have fun!”

Meian strides over to them just then, probably because he sees that they are all gathered together; he has a clipboard in hand. “Good, you’re back,” he says to Thomas, ticking something off on a sheet of paper. “Everyone feeling okay?”

They answer affirmative in unison, and Meian nods, looking satisfied. He turns to Thomas. “Hurry and do your warm-ups, Thomas. You’re starting today.”

Thomas startles like he’s completely forgotten even though they ran through the line-up just last night, and Inunaki snickers, slapping him hard on his back. Thomas blushes, embarrassed, and promptly excuses himself. Meian watches him go, sighing like an exasperated father.

“Don’t fool around. Coach will be asking for y’all at the bench soon,” Meian warns, when he averts his attention back to them. “Especially _you_ , Bokuto.”

Bokuto salutes him, back ramrod straight. “Never, Captain!”

"I would hope so," Meian says. “You will have plenty of time to be clowns tonight. Last practice game of the week—play your best, okay?”

"Yes, Captain!" They chorus. 

Meian eyes them all with a doubtful look on his face, but says nothing as he shakes his head and stalks back to the benches where Foster and Akihiko are.

"What's happening tonight?" Shouyou asks curiously. 

"We always go get hammered on our last day! If we win the last practice game of the week, Coach Foster foots the bill!" Bokuto explains, grinning widely.

"We are gonna to win today," Inunaki declares. He's _definitely_ pumped to drink free booze. 

Atsumu grins. “Let’s make Coach Foster go broke tonight.”

“As long as you don’t mess up your serves,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu bares his teeth at him, and Sakusa returns it with a deadpan look in his dark eyes. Shouyou’s arm brushes against Atsumu’s when he moves in closer, pressing a hand to the small of his back. 

“You have amazing serves, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou says, flashing a winningly bright smile at him. The team jersey is tight against Atsumu's skin, and Shouyou’s hand is almost too warm on his back. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon!”

Atsumu can't help grinning down at Shouyou, corners of his eyes crinkling. “Now, if y’all were more like Shouyou-kun, encouraging and—”

“And indulgent like he is? Towards _you_?" Inunaki pulls a face. Atsumu tries to ignore the unwarranted, sudden curl of pleasure at the remark, warmth creeping up his ears. "No thanks; that's disgusting."

"I've no idea how Hinata does it," Sakusa says, and he's looking at Shouyou like he's just told him he’s learned the secret of making everyone wear face masks. "No one puts up with him like that."

"That's because I have not one, but _two_!" Atsumu declares, slinging an arm around Shouyou's shoulder and pulling Shouyou flush against his side. He jabs his thumb towards Bokuto with his free hand. "Shouyou-kun and Bokkun!" 

Shouyou makes a sound at the back of his throat that's suspiciously similar to a snort, and Atsumu beams proudly.

"What the fuck are you on," Sakusa deadpans, obviously not getting the joke.

Shouyou rests his forehead against Atsumu's chest, right above his pounding heart, and laughs: a full-bellied laughter that has him shaking uncontrollably against his body. Atsumu's face feels like it's about to split into two, grinning so widely that his cheeks are starting to ache.

"What?" Bokuto's brows are scrunched together. "What's so funny? I don't get it!"

"It's not your problem," Inunaki says, staring at Shouyou who's still pressed against Atsumu, nearly wheezing with laughter. Atsumu knows he's funny, but he doesn't know he's _this_ funny. "It's Hinata who has issues, clearly."

"That's apparently what happens when you room with Miya," Sakusa says flatly. "Coach Foster should be calling us over soon." He flicks a glance over at the opposing court. "They're huddled over there already."

Shouyou's laughter has petered off now, and he tilts his head back to look up at Atsumu, echoes of his laughter still visible in the slanted line of his mouth. His long lashes are tinged orange-brown under the florescent lights of the gymnasium, framing his brightly-lit doe eyes. “Sure we can drink Coach Foster broke?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, a beat too late, his heart in his throat. His fingers curl into the fabric of his shorts. “You _do_ have me, y’know.”

“And you have me,” Shouyou replies, then steps away and leaves his side as cold and bereft as he’s ever felt before. 

🏐

They are on their fourth game now, one game behind Lycurgus, and it’s obvious to Atsumu now that Thomas isn’t feeling his best—his blocks are leaving more gaps than usual from the third game onwards, and Inunaki has been working extra hard to make up for it. His jumps also lack their usual height that Atsumu had to adjust for, and even then, the power behind his spikes leave much to be desired.

Bad days are inevitable: Atsumu’s played volleyball long enough to know that it’s simply part of the ride. But he has seen Thomas’ bad days before, and it doesn’t feel like this.

Atsumu turns to face forward again when the whistle blows: he doesn’t have the time to think about what might be wrong with Thomas—if he doesn’t get it together soon, he’s going to be switched out. It’s not as if they have a shallow line-up in the Black Jackals.

Inunaki bumps a nasty serve; an ever reliable defense. Atsumu slides sideways and jump-sets the ball to Bokuto, who attacks it down the sideline of the opposing court. The libero digs it, skidding onto the ground with his agile save. _Their fucking libero…_ Atsumu curses under his breath. The ball is up in the air again, spinning in a high, wide arch out of the court. Number Five follows the trajectory and positions himself perfectly, bumping it to the wing. 

The ball is over the net now, and Sakusa bumps it neatly towards the net. Atsumu sprints into place, setting the ball over his shoulders where he knows Shouyou’s waiting. The blockers are in place, all their fucking 2-metre-and-something bulk, and the ball tips over one of their hands. Number Five picks it up from behind them, passing it over to Number Eleven. He proceeds to send the ball to one of the annoying giants at the front zone like Atsumu has expected—he jumps right on time with Meian, and the ball is blocked back to their side.

Number Five is somehow there again, the ball ricocheting off his arms and sending it over to their side. Atsumu dashes over and jumps, angling his wrists subtly to Sakusa’s side for a split second. Then he twists his torso as the ball lands in his hands, bending low backwards to set it over to Shouyou. It leaves his hands with barely a spin: _perfect_ _for ya, Shouyou-kun._

The blockers have only just landed on their feet, baited by his feint. They sprint to the side, but Shouyou’s already soaring in the air, back beautifully arched and knees bent behind his body. Atsumu catches a hard glint in his eyes as he swings his arm back and slams it right down on the edge of the court. The libero misses it by a hair, sliding on his knees as the ball bounces off the ground.

Shouyou clenches his fist and shouts in triumph, the sound sending vicious tremors to Atsumu’s heart, already pounding in his ears. He has his arms around Shouyou in an instant, fingers curling into his hair. His muscles are aching and sweat is clinging onto every inch of his body, but he’s _exhilarated_ , adrenaline pumping fiercely in his veins. 

“Nice one, Shouyou-kun,” he breathes against his ear. He feels Shouyou shiver against him and remembers himself, releasing his hold and stepping back to put a respectable distance between them.

Shouyou gazes up at him anyway, completely clueless and prettily disheveled, face flushed with pride and exertion. “You made it perfect for me, Atsumu-san. I had to reply in kind.” 

Atsumu simply stares at him, a violent sea roaring in his chest, a different kind of hotness suffusing through his body. _Reply in kind…_ The team’s caught up to them by then, tugging Atsumu back into a cozy circle, Bokuto huddled between him and Shouyou. Atsumu resolutely tears his gaze away from Shouyou, licking against the roof of his mouth, and turns his attention to Meian: a safe, necessary diversion.

“Are you okay, Thomas?” Meian asks, darting a quick look over to the opposing team. “You don’t seem well.”

Now that Meian has pointed it out, there’s a sickly pallor in his skin. Atsumu frowns. “Was it something you ate yesterday?” 

“No, I’m fine,” Thomas says. Atsumu doesn’t agree, but he keeps his mouth shut. One more slip and he will make sure he’s subbed. This is a practice match but that doesn’t mean you can be any less serious about it. “Sorry.”

Meian narrows his eyes at him, then nods his head slowly. “We are still three points behind. Keep your guard up, everyone.” He fixes a stern look at Thomas. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

They rotate clockwise when they scatter back into place, Bokuto heading to serve as Atsumu takes position 2. It’s a strong jump serve but the libero connects and Number Eleven sets it behind his shoulders, where Number Five does a run-up in the back zone and spikes down the ball.

Inunaki falls back on the ground as he sends the ball flying over the net. Number Five bumps it over to Number Eleven, who sets it to the wing. The towering bulk of mass pulls an off-speed, and Atsumu curses as he scrambles towards it, catching Meian and Shouyou doing the same in his periphery. Inunaki is there first, however, sliding flat on the ground with his arm stretched forward, and the ball bounces off his hand back into the air.

Fucking Inunaki and his saves... A smirk twists Atsumu’s mouth. Bokuto bumps the ball over to Sakusa, who slams a sharp cross into the opposing court with a disgusting snap of his wrist. The libero barely manages to keep it in the air, the pass falling short as Number Eleven dashes forward and sends it to Number Five. 

It rolls over Meian’s fingers and Thomas darts forward, a little too slow, and the angle is wrong as the ball bounces off his hands. Atsumu clenches his jaw, dashing out of court to bump the ball over his head. It’s a long pass over to the opposing court—not what he’d prefer, but there’s no choice in that—and Number Eleven sets it neatly over to the wing.

Number Eighteen tips it over the net, but Atsumu’s there, bending low in his knees and setting it behind his shoulders. 

Shouyou’s already mid-flight when Atsumu turns, poised to strike with one arm swinging back—then he switches gears in a split second, both his hands above his head with his shoulders squared, and flicks his wrist, launching the ball towards the sideline: it’s the quietest, most _perfect_ set he’s ever seen from Shouyou. Under _this_ fucking condition, too.

 _Shouyou-kun, you really are…_ Goosebumps prickle over the skin of Atsumu’s forearms. 

A movement behind Shouyou snaps him out of it, and he glances over to see Bokuto soaring into the air, slamming the ball deep into the opposing court, positioned nastily between two stock-still players. It bounces off towards the ceiling before Atsumu can blink _._

The scorekeeper flips the card over. Two points behind only, now. 

Atsumu jogs over to Bokuto and slaps their hands together, slightly slick with sweat, then bumps their shoulders together heartily. “Good one, Bokkun!”

“They couldn’t react!” Bokuto pulls the hem of his jersey up to wipe the sweat trickling down the sides of his forehead. He’s showing teeth with a wide grin plastered on his face and he doesn’t seem the least bit tired, despite the number of long-running rallies they have been having. “Thanks to Hinata!” He beams over Atsumu’s shoulder, then. “I didn’t know you’d send it over to me!” 

Shouyou's adjusting his headband as he steps into place beside Atsumu, grinning brightly at Bokuto. “I knew you would be there anyway!” 

“Good play!” Meian praises, reaching them with Inunaki and Sakusa, Thomas trailing behind them with his face paler than ever. Meian ruffles the back of Inunaki’s hair affectionately as Inunaki scowls, but he doesn’t move away from Meian. He probably really likes being treated like a dog, Atsumu thinks, but he’s not dumb enough to say it out loud. “Fantastic saves as usual, Inunaki!”

“Knowing you always have our backs is super, super reassuring!” Shouyou exclaims, eyes sparkling with barely-veiled adoration. “Please teach me your ways, Wan-san!”

Inunaki pats Shouyou’s head with a laugh. “Now, now, don’t come snatching my position, Hinata,” he jokes. 

“I could never!” Shouyou shakes his head vigorously, a tuft of his hair swinging to and fro. Atsumu’s fingers twitch by his sides, tamping down the urge to tame it for him. “I am leap years away from you, Wan-san!”

Everyone’s laughing as they slap each other on the back, and as Meian shifts his attention to Thomas, who clearly knows now that his condition isn’t fit for playing, Atsumu chances a look over to Shouyou. 

His heart gives a tiny jolt of surprise when he finds Shouyou staring back at him, a strange, unidentifiable look on his face. Just as he’s about to make a wisecrack that he’s pretty sure would have Shouyou wheezing with laughter, Shouyou cants his head a little to the side. There’s an intensity in his eyes that Atsumu’s never seen before, even if they have looked at each other a thousand times, and it awakens the violent sea caged at the centre of his chest, turbulent waves rattling his ribs and crashing at his collarbones. 

He thinks about sitting across Shouyou at his low table, shoveling home-cooked food down his throat; he thinks about their full-bellied laughter as they pepper in his living room, hitting the ball against the ceiling so much Akaashi ends up storming downstairs with Bokuto in tow; he thinks about Shouyou saying, “ _You’re scared of the cold, aren’t you?_ ” when he finally asks why he doesn’t turn on the air-conditioner even during summer. 

He imagines, for one self-indulgent moment, claiming Shouyou’s chapped lips for his own and feeling happiness pressed against the shape of his mouth over and over. 

Abruptly, Shouyou flushes red, like he hasn’t realized he's been caught staring, but he doesn't look away. Instead, his eyes crinkle into half-crescent moons, wide grin slanting across his mouth and, _fuck,_ Atsumu's heart swells so impossibly large in his chest he thinks it might burst at its seams.

He manages a half-hearted smile and turns back, watching as Foster signals for a substitution. Even without looking at Shouyou, the heavy knot at the pit of his stomach doesn't allow him to forget. His fingers curl into tight fists by his sides, blunt nails digging into the flesh of his palms, and he wonders when he’s drowned and how he could have missed it.

🏐

The rest of the match passes without any more groundbreaking revelations, thankfully.

They win the game, of course, though if Thomas'd been in good condition, they’d have probably clinched a prettier victory. He was sent off to the nearest clinic with one of their managers after checking his temperature though it's probably a simple food poisoning, but it's always safer to get it checked out.

The team makes plans for drinks on the way back to the hotel, with the usual few bowing out, and Inunaki somehow manages to make a reservation for ten at a bar within walking distance even though there’s only a few hours’ notice. 

Atsumu doesn’t really get the deal with drinks, honestly, what with all the stupid things people get up to when they are drunk. It’s not like he has a bad alcohol tolerance—okay, fine, he may be weaker than some, but it’s _definitely_ still within acceptable levels. People like Inunaki and Bokuto don’t let him get off easy, though, refilling his glass every opportunity they get. It’s worse for occasions like this, when Foster’s footing the bill. 

He steals off to catch a few winks after taking a bath. In the haze of his sleep-addled state, he thinks he hears someone talking to him and mumbles something incoherent in response, not bothering to open his eyes. A gentle touch brushes against his forehead before he's left alone once more, and he drifts off to sleep easily with no further interruptions.

When he opens his eyes again, Shouyou’s leaning over him, his long, orange-brown hair flopping around a white headband pushed up against his forehead, his usual wide grin plastered on his face. “I’ve been trying to wake you for the past five minutes!”

“Didcha not sleep?” Atsumu groans, rubbing his face tiredly. His head still feels heavy from sleep and he thinks he’d much rather remain in bed than get out of it. “Are you not tired at all, you monster?”

“I couldn’t sleep at all! I went to find Bokuto-san and we went to play a game of pool!” And of course, there’s Hinata Shouyou and his endless supply of energy. Atsumu doesn’t even know why he bothered to ask in the first place. “We are leaving in ten!”

With much cajoling from Shouyou, Atsumu finally gets up and splashes some cold water on his face before he gets dragged out the door by Shouyou. 

The bar is only a fifteen minutes’ walk away, tucked in a secluded corner of a street, and the big group of them naturally split off in pairs as Inunaki leads the way with Meian. Atsumu tugs on the collar of his coat that Shouyou insisted he wear before they left, secretly grateful that Shouyou was stubborn about it, and puffs out a wispy exhale in the chilly night air.

“So how were you convinced to come along?” Atsumu asks, burying his hands into his pockets. “Did Bokkun hold a knife to yer throat?”

“No,” Sakusa replies flatly. Atsumu thinks he can almost hear the scowl in his voice. “I just needed a breather.”

Atsumu arches a brow disbelievingly, craning his neck to get a better look at Sakusa’s expression even though half of it is hidden under his mask. “What? Isn’t yer definition of getting a breather _not_ being in a place packed with rowdy, inebriated drunks and vomit-filled toilets?”

Sakusa shoots him a withering glare. “Don’t even talk about it.”

Atsumu, genuinely curious now, decides to make it his quest to figure out how Bokuto managed to coerce Sakusa into this by the end of the night. “We are friends, aren’t we, Omi-kun! Friends tell each other everything!” 

“No.”

“Did Bokkun hide yer cleaning supplies?” Sakusa doesn’t give any indication that he’s right. “Did he hide yer supply of masks?” Atsumu gasps. "He did _not_ hide yer underwear, did he?! Would he go that far?!"

“You are annoying,” Sakusa says, instead of answering his question. “Go bother someone else.”

Atsumu pulls a face at him. “You are so _rude_ , Omi-Omi! How can you ever get a girlfriend at this rate?!”

“I never said I wanted a relationship,” Sakusa says, adjusting his mask slipping down his nose. 

Atsumu nods his head gravely. “Yes, yes, you should fix yer cranky—” He curses, cut off mid-sentence by a vicious stomp on his foot. 

Shouyou and Bokuto turn their heads, definitely catching his colourful insults with them being only a few feet away, and he finishes off his tirade with the nastiest scowl he can muster. Sakusa hunches his shoulders and looks like he’d rather die than be beside Atsumu. 

“What happened?” Shouyou asks. 

“He stepped on my foot! Hard!”

“It wasn’t even that hard,” Sakusa mutters. “Stop exaggerating it.”

“I’ve told Tsum-Tsum plenty of times he needs to bulk up more to defend himself!” Bokuto says, his eyes twinkling with good-natured humor. “See! You should’ve listened to me!”

“I’m not gonna get into a _fistfight_ with anyone who steps on my foot, Bokkun,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. “Plus, I am _made_ of muscles! I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout.”

“Does it still hurt?” Shouyou asks, flicking a concerned glance down. 

“Shouyou-kun, the only one who cares!” Atsumu exclaims, then grabs Shouyou’s arm and shamelessly tugs him towards him. Atsumu catches Shouyou by the waist when he stumbles back, fingers sliding down to tighten his grip on Shouyou’s hips to steady him. “—Oops, sorry.”

“I—uh, it’s okay,” Shouyou replies, half a beat late, a strange lilt in his voice that has Atsumu’s heart fluttering his chest. From this angle, he can only see the cold-bitten, reddened tips of Shouyou’s ears. 

His stomach does a funny flip when he realizes that he’s still holding onto Shouyou, who’s pressed flush against nearly every inch of his body. His mouth goes dry, feeling the onset of a natural reaction, and immediately drops his hands from Shouyou’s hips to step aside and adjust his coat in front of his pants. 

Sakusa has replaced Shouyou’s spot beside Bokuto by now, hunching his shoulders as Bokuto continues chattering away before he slaps Sakusa on the back heartily with a guffaw.

“What were y’all talking about just now?” Shouyou breaks the odd silence after a few minutes. “He can’t have done that for nothing.”

“Was just tryin’ to figure out how Bokkun managed to get him to come,” Atsumu says, studiously avoiding Shouyou’s eyes and trying to suppress the memory of his warm body pressed snugly against his. He licks the back of his teeth. “He didn’t wanna let up, so I pestered him for a bit.” 

“It might be easier to wait for Bokuto-san to say it all on his own when they’re drinking later,” Shouyou says shrewdly. “Or Omi-san might tell you himself when he has enough.”

Atsumu turns to look at Shouyou, caught by surprise. Shouyou’s grinning, eyes sparkling with unabashed mischief, and something impossibly fond swells warmly at the center of Atsumu’s chest. 

Unable to help himself, he reaches over to ruffle Shouyou’s hair, an easy smirk slanting across his mouth as he lowers his eyes to meet Shouyou’s. “Have I ever toldja how much I like ya?”

"No," Shouyou says, slowly. An interesting shade of red colors his cheeks in the chilly night. "I like you a lot too, Atsumu-san!" 

Well. Atsumu retracts his hand, heat creeping up his neck, and wonders if he'd say the same thing if he knew _exactly_ how much he likes him. 

Shouyou flashes another grin at him before he goes on to talk about the call he had with his little sister recently—she’s apparently having a lot of fun playing the trumpet in the orchestra—eyes alight with pride. This Shouyou, Atsumu thinks as he watches him wave his hands animatedly, is one of his favourites. 

🏐

The only good thing about alcohol is that everyone loosens up. Atsumu leans back against the upholstered seat and squints to check the time in the bottom corner of the television screen, currently playing a recording of a soccer match. In the neighboring booth, Kunihiro and Hiroki are goading Kyogo into drinking another shot even though his face is flushed so red even _Atsumu_ would hesitate pushing him further. Higuchi, meanwhile, is sipping on his pint of beer calmly as he nods his head to something Kodama is saying. It’s surprising how well Higuchi holds his liquor.

A warm weight presses into his side, and he startles, blinking as he looks down to meet Shouyou’s eyes. 

“You look kinda out of it,” Shouyou says. His eyes are as clear as ever, and he looks like he barely drank. “Are you feeling okay?”

In an odd, dazed state, Atsumu thinks Shouyou’s pretty face looks like it’s floating in the blurred background. 

“Of course I’m okay,” Atsumu replies, beaming at him. “I am good at _everything!_ Includin’ holdin’ my liquor!”

“I heard that!” Inunaki leers from across the table, pushing a vodka shot towards him. “Another one for you, then.”

“Tsum-Tsum can’t take anymore!” Bokuto leans into his space, almost uncomfortably close, his hot breath fanning across his face as he peers at him. Atsumu grimaces and presses a hand to his face to shove him away. “I know this look of his—” Bokuto says, voice muffled under Atsumu’s hand, “he’s gone!”

“I’m _not_ drunk!” Atsumu smacks Bokuto’s forehead for good measure to make his point. Bokuto just grins at him like the secret psycho he is. He thinks he hears Shouyou’s laughter beside him. “I can even hit you! Accurately! On the mark!”

“Oh man,” Meian says, sighing. “Oh man, it’s starting again.”

“Nuthin’s startin’.” Atsumu frowns at Meian. “There’s nuthing startin’.

“Drink it,” Inunaki urges him. “We will drink it with you.” Inunaki jerks his chin towards the filled shot in front of Shouyou. “Hinata, you barely drank! C’mon, just one more.”

“Don’t coerce him into it,” Atsumu interrupts before Shouyou can respond. He grabs the shot meant for Shouyou and downs it in one swallow. It burns a fiery trail down his throat as he replaces it on the table. “Shouyou-kun doesn’t like alcohol.” He licks his lips clean of whisky and turns to Shouyou, sliding his hand up the side of Shouyou’s face as he grins. “Aren’t I right?”

Shouyou’s eyes widen, his cheek warm under Atsumu’s palm. It’s strange how red he is, considering he hasn’t drank that much. Atsumu had tried to block off Inunaki as much as possible, he’s sure. 

“... You two are disgusting,” Meian deadpans, breaking into Atsumu’s thoughts. Atsumu drops his hand almost immediately and snaps his head round to fix his eyes on Meian. He’s grinning goodnaturedly, however, and Atsumu feels the tension he hadn't even realized was there leave his shoulders. “Get a room.” 

“I think they’re cute,” Bokuto says cheerily, draping an arm around Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu ignores him and knocks back the vodka shot Inunaki handed him earlier. “Two volleyball fanatics! Isn’t that a match made in heaven?!”

“No,” Sakusa says as he nurses his drink. “Hinata is too good for him.” 

Atsumu stares at Sakusa, mind going blank from the comment, and realizes he’s unable to come up with a rebuttal for that.

“That’s not true,” Shouyou says, cocking his head to the side. “Atsumu-san can be petty, is too weak to the cold, likes to sleep in too much, sucks at taking care of himself outside of volleyball—” 

“Gee, thank you, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes as Meian and Oliver throw their heads back and laugh. Sakusa’s expression twists into the triumphant one he assumes after he delivers a particularly good serve, and Atsumu scowls back, regrettably too far away to cough in his face.

Shouyou rests a hand on Atsumu’s thigh before Atsumu can ask him to stop talking, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric of his track pants. Atsumu’s mouth goes dry, gaze dropping down to Shouyou’s fingers splayed on the outside of his thigh. 

“—But Atsumu-san’s a person who devotes all of himself into something once he makes up his mind. It’s incredible. I’d be very lucky to find someone like him.”

“My God,” Oliver gasps, after a beat of silence, pointing at Atsumu. “Are you blushing?! Or is that the alcohol?!”

“I’m not blushin’—it’s the fuckin’ alcohol!” Atsumu nearly shouts, face burning hot. The bunch of them roar with laughter, save for Sakusa, who shoots him an irritating smirk. Atsumu _hates_ them all. “Stop laughin’ at me, y’all!” 

“Who’s blushing?!” Kunihiro yells from the next table. “Is Miya blushing?”

“Oh my God,” Atsumu moans, burying his face in his hands. “I am _not!_ ”

“Someone record this!” Hiroki calls. “Miya’s fans would love it! They went nuts over the video of Atsumu’s lame joke falling flat last time!”

“Oh, _that_ joke!” Shouyou exclaims at the same time Kyogo asks loudly, “ _What joke, Hiroki-san?”_ Atsumu’s sure Hiroki’s whipping out his phone right about now to enlighten him. His image is _ruined._ “I thought it was pretty funny! I’d have laughed if I were there, Atsumu-san!”

“So,” Atsumu says loudly, trying to divert everyone’s attention. “What did Bokkun say for ya to come, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa wrinkles his nose. “None of your business.”

“Bokkun,” Atsumu whines, turning to Bokuto and tugging on his arm.

Bokuto laughs a little too loudly, face flushed from the alcohol. Atsumu _knows_ that Bokuto’s definitely feeling it. “I only told him a ghost story!” Bokuto grins. “Or two!”

“You’re scared of ghosts?” Oliver asks, sounding surprised. He chortles, a deep rumble that comes from his chest. “Youth! Oh, _youth_!”

“My God,” Meian says, rubbing his hand over his face. “Shut up, Oliver.”

“It’s true! I haven’t been scared of ghosts in a long, long while!” Oliver protests. He points to Sakusa, who’s sending death glares at Bokuto. “It’s okay, Sakusa! It’s a sign of youth to be scared!”

“I’m _not_ scared,” Sakusa says flatly.

“It’s okay to be scared of ghosts, Omi-san!” Shouyou says brightly. Sakusa looks at Shouyou in disbelief, like he can’t believe Shouyou’s joining in too. “Everyone’s scared of something!”

“Yes!” Atsumu says loudly, eager to back Shouyou up. “Fears are meant to be overcome, anyway!”

“I’ve never heard something that made _that_ much sense coming from your mouth,” Inunaki says, snickering. “And it has to be when you’re drunk.”

“Cheers to that!" Bokuto shouts abruptly, raising his glass, and waves for the other table to do the same.

Everyone downs another drink. 

Atsumu blinks and stares down at his empty glass, feeling slightly woozy after what feels like mere seconds, then leans his weight on Shouyou. He thinks he hears Inunaki asking for a few glasses of water, but everything’s getting a little garbled to his ears, so he closes his eyes and settles comfortably on Shouyou’s shoulder.

🏐

A sharp pain at his ribs jolts him awake.

“What,” he mumbles, then takes in the sudden change of scenery. Half of the crowd in front of him are staggering under the dim streetlights, and everyone’s leaning against each other as they stumble forward. Someone’s singing a horribly off-tune rendition of Ponyo’s theme song.

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou’s voice is close to his ear. Too close. Atsumu turns his head slowly, meeting Shouyou’s concerned eyes, and realizes he has his arm draped over Shouyou’s shoulder. “Sorry, I accidentally jostled you just now.”

“I must be heavy,” he mumbles, looking at his arm around Shouyou. How nice. He wishes it can stay there forever. 

“You’re fine,” Shouyou says.

“... I don’t have green hair.”

Shouyou looks at him like he’s said something really strange, and Atsumu doesn’t get why. It’s true he doesn’t have green hair. “I don’t have green hair,” he repeats, thinking that Shouyou mustn’t have gotten it the first time.

“I know.” Shouyou’s mouth is curved now, and Atsumu thinks if he smiles any wider the cutest dimple will appear. 

“My hair’s like,” Atsumu pauses, and tries to remember the correct word for it. “Right. Blond?”

“Do you not like it?” 

Atsumu considers it for a moment. “It’s not green.”

“Why do you want green hair?” Shouyou asks, still looking at him fondly. Atsumu's heart skips a beat in his chest. 

“Well—" He cuts himself off when he nearly stumbles over his feet.

Shouyou’s grip tightens around his waist. He blinks down at it, not even aware Shouyou’s hand is _at his waist._ “Careful.”

“So, what about green hair?” Shouyou probes.

Atsumu continues staring at the hand at his waist, unable to believe this is reality. Is this reality? This must be a dream. 

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou angles his face inwards. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not just green hair,” Atsumu says sadly, dropping his head into the curve of Shouyou’s neck. “I don’t have a scar over my left eye, either!”

Shouyou laughs, and Atsumu whines when he feels his pillow shaking under him. “Sorry, sorry,” Shouyou says, breathless. The shaking subsides considerably, but Atsumu can still hear the amusement in his voice. “Are you talking about Zoro?”

“Yes! Zoro!”

“I didn’t know he was your favourite character,” Shouyou says. “He’s mine, too!”

 _No_ , _you idiot,_ Atsumu wants to correct him, but his eyelids are growing heavy and he doesn’t know if he actually managed to say it out loud, _it’s because he’s_ your _favourite character._

🏐

When Atsumu opens his eyes again, he’s on his bed with Shouyou sprawled over him. His arm is wrapped around Shouyou’s waist, fingers tightly clasped around Shouyou’s hip. His body is now completely awake, heat thrumming under his skin with Shouyou pressed against every line of his body.

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou’s voice is muffled against his neck, hot breath grazing against the pulsing heart under his skin. Atsumu stifles a tortured moan, hardening in his pants, and rips his hand away from Shouyou’s hip, praying he has enough self-preservation to move away immediately. “Are you awake?”

 _Apparently_ _not_. 

Shouyou balances his weight on his palms at either side of Atsumu’s head. “Do you want some water?” Atsumu simply stares up at him, taking in his soft brown eyes and his pink, kissable lips. “What, are you only gonna answer me when I call you Zoro?” Shouyou grins, eyes sparkling with mischief, and the damned dimple surfaces in his left cheek again.

Unthinkingly, Atsumu pulls Shouyou down to him, slanting his mouth across his. Shouyou nearly stumbles onto him, caught by surprise, and Atsumu wraps an arm around Shouyou’s waist to steady him, the other hand snaking back to cup the nape of his neck. He moves his lips against Shouyou’s parted ones, slow but persistent, sweeping his tongue across his bottom lip. Shouyou moans, the sound jolting right down to Atsumu’s cock, and finally kisses him back.

He kisses like Atsumu has never imagined—has never _allowed_ himself to think about—purposefully and passionately, just like his unique brand of volleyball. Shouyou’s hands have moved to tangle his fingers into his hair, tugging Atsumu’s head back as he slips his tongue into Atsumu’s mouth like he’s mapping his territory. Atsumu surrenders himself to Shouyou without a second thought, fingers tight around the back of Shouyou’s neck as Shouyou licks into his mouth, seemingly intent on ravaging him whole.

Shouyou’s straddling his hips now, grinding down against him, the fabric of their pants creating a delicious friction that has Atsumu whining shamelessly into his mouth. It’s fucking impossible how _good_ this feels, how he knows now that Shouyou kisses like a victor claiming his spoils, and he doesn’t know if he can go back to pretending they are just friends— _Are you normal, Atsumu?_ —

Even with the heat burning at the pit of his belly, the realization of what he’s just done freezes over his veins. The smell of whisky surges up his throat, unbidden, and he feels so sick he thinks he might hurl at this very moment. He releases his grip at the back of Shouyou’s neck and pushes, hard, against his broad shoulders.

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou pulls away almost immediately, eyes bright and lips glistening, and Atsumu aches to kiss him again.

“I’m—I’m gonna be sick,” Atsumu says instead, heavy knot twisting at the bottom of his belly as he shoves Shouyou off him and scrambles to the bathroom like the coward he is. 

“Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu slams the door behind him and falls onto his knees, clutching at the sides of the toilet seat as he dry-heaves into it. He continues retching, desperate to expel the disgusting alcohol from his system, the sickening smell of whisky still lingering in his mouth. The taste of acid clings at the back of his throat, but nothing comes out after what felt like hours of him trying to retch the gross alcohol out of his system. He rests his clammy forehead against the toilet seat and closes his eyes, all energy drained from his body.

“Go away,” Atsumu groans, when the door clicks open. He’s mortified just thinking about Shouyou seeing him like this. “It’s disgustin’.”

“I know,” Shouyou says quietly, but Atsumu doesn’t hear him leave. There’s the sound of clothes rustling as Atsumu feels him settle down next to him. A hand begins rubbing soothing circles on his back, and it’s so gentle that it makes Atsumu feel like the worst scum on earth after his display earlier. “It’s okay.”

How is he so _nice_? A broken sob tumbles from Atsumu’s mouth, embarrassingly loud. The sound bounces off the tiled walls of the bathroom, and Atsumu wants to shrivel up and die. “Go away,” Atsumu repeats, voice quavering more than he’d have liked. “I’m disgustin’.”

“You are Atsumu-san,” Shouyou says softly, hand continuing its soothing motions on his back. “That’s what matters to me.”

Atsumu’s shoulders hunch protectively around himself, and another sob wrecks through his frame before he can force it back down. “I’m disgusting,” he says again, at this point having no idea what he’s referring to. He’s thankful the lights are off in the bathroom because he’s sure he’s the ugliest he’s ever been. 

“You are Atsumu-san,” Shouyou answers, the conviction in his voice never wavering. Atsumu doesn’t deserve him at all. “You’re not disgusting.”

Atsumu’s eyes burn, and he’s mortified to feel hot tears trickling down his cheeks. “You’re too—too nice,” he says between sobs, too embarrassed to lift his head from the toilet seat, “how are you _so nice_?” His voice cracks at the end of the sentence, and Shouyou laughs softly.

“I’m not nice to everyone like you think I am,” Shouyou says, before Atsumu can take offense. He gathers Atsumu in his arms, carefully and slowly, like he’s afraid of spooking Atsumu. When Atsumu doesn’t resist him, he draws him against his chest, and the familiar smell of citrus detergent washes over his nose. Atsumu thinks if he focuses enough, he can hear the steady thump of Shouyou’s heart beneath his ribs. “You are special, Atsumu-san.”

_Special._

Atsumu’s ribs tighten almost painfully in his chest. He presses his face into the curve of Shouyou’s neck, shoulders still convulsing with silent sobs, and tries to inhale a shaky, shallow breath to steady himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu manages to wrangle from his throat, tears streaming down his face. He curls his fingers into the fabric of Shouyou’s shirt. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Shouyou simply says, the fucking saint he is.

Atsumu tightens his grip on Shouyou and, shoving a growing realization to the back of his mind, tells himself he’s content where they are right now.

🏐

When Atsumu wakes up next morning, his head’s pounding and there’s a disgusting taste of alcohol clinging on his tongue. A wave of self-loathing crashes into him almost immediately. _I kissed Shouyou-kun._ He doesn’t remember much of what went on after, other than him making a sprint for the toilet. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He buries his face in his hands and tries to calm himself: it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. He can pretend he was just drunk. He can pretend he kisses _anyone_ when he’s drunk.

He peeks over his fingers. Shouyou has his eyes closed, still meditating cross-legged on his bed just an arm’s length away from him, and Atsumu pointedly looks away from Shouyou’s lips and heads to the bathroom. 

He doesn’t turn on the heater and simply stands under the showerhead as his body is doused in icy cold water, leaving trails of goosebumps in its wake. _There’s no need to freak out_ , he tells himself, _just pretend everything’s okay_. It’d be like telling Osamu he didn’t eat the last cup of pudding, like telling Aran he hadn’t taken his pencil, and like telling his mother that he’s normal. 

He retches, as if on reflex, and crumbles down into a squat. 

His body is shaking all over, and he curls his fingers into his face as he stifles his sobs into his palms under the pelting water. It feels like there are thousands and thousands of insects crawling over his too-tight skin, and no amount of soap and water will ever wash them away. He’d never thought he’d be _this_ attracted to… He’s always believed he will be as normal as everyone else—that since he’s okay with women, he can pretend he’s _like_ everyone else. 

He knows there’s nothing wrong with liking boys. _But it’s…_ He wraps his arms around himself, teeth chattering under the cold water, and squeezes his eyes shut. _It was too easy to pretend._

It took longer than he’d have liked to get himself together. When Atsumu finally steps out of the bathroom, Shouyou’s already bustling around the room to do a final check. 

“Morning, Atsumu-san!” He turns to flash him a bright smile that has Atsumu’s stomach doing flips that he knows has nothing to do with his hangover. He’s torn between the sudden impulse to run away and snatching Shouyou up by the waist to kiss him. “I got a Pocari Sweat for you from Inunaki! There’s ibuprofen too, on the table, if your head’s hurting.”

“Ah,” Atsumu’s voice comes out slightly raspy, and he clears his throat. “Thanks, Shouyou-kun.”

He’s already packed his luggage the day before, leaving out the bare essentials for the following morning. He dumps his toiletries and towel on the bed, then grabs his luggage that’s leaning against his bed.

“Atsumu-san.” There’s an odd lilt in Shouyou’s voice. Atsumu’s finger tightens around the handle of his luggage, but he doesn’t look back. “About yesterday…”

“Yesterday?” Atsumu forces a laugh. “What happened yesterday?” He tries not to think about the breathless moans shared between open-mouthed kisses, or Shouyou’s long fingers tugging on his hair, sending electrifying jolts down his cock. He turns with a grin plastered on his face. “I must have been a pain in the ass! I know I’m a burden when I’m drunk. Sorry!”

There’s no smile on Shouyou’s face; only a barely perceptible tightness at the corners of his mouth. “Do you really not remember anything?”

“Is there something I should remember?” 

Shouyou’s face shutters off to a studied look of indifference, broad shoulders taut with tension. “I see.” He’s never seen Shouyou look like this before, and he hates that he can tell. He hates that he’s the one who’d placed that expression on his face. “It’s nothing much. We should get going, then. Are you done packing yet?”

“Almost,” Atsumu manages to say, without sounding like his heart’s been dug out of his chest with his own hands. He turns back to his luggage and notices his hands are shaking as he picks up his towel. “Almost done.”

Everything that happened will remain here. He can move on from this. They will go back to being normal friends.

“... Remember to take the ibuprofen on the table, Atsumu-san.”

With his back still facing Shouyou, he presses cold, trembling fingers to his lips. His heart feels bruised all over, throbbing with every painful thump under his ribs.

_How are you so nice, even now?_

🏐

Nothing changes when they return to Japan. Like an unspoken agreement, neither of them bring up that night again. Shouyou remains the feral beast on court that he loves setting for—will _always_ love setting for—slamming down balls set perfectly at the highest apex for him with every powerful swing of his arm and digging nasty spikes from across the net as a formidable pillar of defense. 

They don't hang out in each other's apartments anymore. 

Shouyou had asked him once, a few days after returning to Japan, when everyone was making their way back to the locker room, careful and soft. Atsumu had forced a smile on his face and said he had plans already. Shouyou’s smile had faltered and the look that crossed his eyes for that split second had strung Atsumu’s heart up his throat, clogging his words and making it difficult to breathe. He only watched, like the coward he is, Shouyou nodding once in understanding before he left the hall without another word.

Atsumu misses Shouyou's maple-glazed chicken, Shouyou's excited ramblings about his favourite mangas, Shouyou's fondness as he talks about his sister, Shouyou's morning texts before their daily runs with Bokuto—and really, he misses him most of all. It's probably healthier for him to lock everything away in some dusty corner of his mind, but it's harder than Atsumu thought it'd be when he has to pretend his heart isn't in his throat every time their eyes meet.

It's strange how Shouyou has filled out a hole in his chest he hadn't even known was there in the first place. 

🏐

Atsumu heads down to Onigiri Miya on a Saturday after eight. The college student is still there, fidgeting with the stray threads of her apron as she watches Osamu shape the rice in his hands into a triangle. She's so transfixed she doesn't seem to notice Atsumu's entrance. Mildly amused, Atsumu folds his arms and reclines against the wall.

"Is that how you do it?" She asks, face slightly flushed. Her eyes are fixed on Osamu's face instead of his hands. "I always can't get the shape right."

"Yeah," Osamu says, still stupidly focused on the onigiri in his hands. Does he _really_ think she's asking him for onigiri-making lessons? "Onigiris don't have to always be triangular, ya know." He looks up and flashes her an easy grin. The poor college kid turns so red she looks like she's about to combust on the spot. "You can shape it into a ball—" He pats the rice tighter in his hands, then lifts a perfect ball-shaped onigiri on his palm. "—like this, too."

Atsumu tamps down the urge to laugh and whips out his phone as surreptitiously as possible and snaps a quick picture he promptly sends to the Inarizaki group chat.

"Are ya done sniggerin' over there?"

Atsumu pushes himself off the wall, flashing a lopsided grin at the college girl who reddens even more, if possible. Flustered, she bows to them both, thanking Osamu for his time before she hangs up her apron and grabs her bag on one of the seats, darting out of the restaurant all in the span of one minute. 

"You're a dick, y'know," Osamu says, after she leaves, the fabric divider at the entrance swinging violently with her hasty retreat.

"Only to you," Atsumu says airily, sliding into an empty seat at the counter. His phone is now vibrating incessantly on the table. "Isn't she cute?"

Osamu narrows his eyes at him. "I already said I don't date my employees." He sprinkles some salt on the rice. "Also, delete the damned picture."

"You didn't even check yer phone!" Atsumu protests, grabbing his phone and unlocking it swiftly. "Aran's spamming tons of question marks asking if that's yer new girlfriend—Kita-san asks if that's the waitress he usually sees around the store, and if she's a high schooler or a college student. High school?! Scandalous, 'Samu, _scandalous!_ " 

"Shut the fuck up," Osamu says, working on the third plate of onigiris. "I'm gonna kill ya."

Atsumu arches a brow and props his chin on his palm. "Are ya so hungry today?"

"Mum's droppin' by," Osamu replies, dipping a hole in the middle of the rice. "Should be reachin' 'bout now."

"Oh," Atsumu says. He unlocks his phone and types, _Who knows??_ _He doesn't wanna tell me ANYTHING!!!_ and inserts a crying emoji to suitably express his state of anguish. "Suna's not gonna let ya live this down for a while."

"One day you're gonna turn up dead in a ditch and no one's gonna question why you were killed."

"'Samu, don't say that to yer brother!" Atsumu flashes Osamu a gleeful grin and turns to wave his mother over from the entrance. She makes her way briskly over, laughing, and ruffles Atsumu's hair before she takes the seat next to him. "What did I miss?"

" _Plenty_ ," Atsumu says in a stage-whisper, and ignores the heated glare boring into the side of his face. "This girl helpin' out at the store stayed back for _one-on-one private lessons_ with 'Samu-sensei just now. They were adorable, Mum, ya should've seen it!"

"Oh?" Their mother levels an interested look on Osamu, who's taking way too long to shape an onigiri for someone who does this for a living. "Why didn't ya tell me anything?"

"Because," Osamu says, exasperated, finally done with the onigiri and dropping it on the plate, "she's my _employee._ "

"Well," their mother says, her eyes twinkling. "Which year is she in? She's doin' this as a temporary job, right? Ya can always make a move after she leaves!"

"Yes, yes!" Atsumu joins in, clapping his hands together. "Don't be a coward, 'Samu!"

"Not another word," Osamu says flatly, his brow twitching. "It's annoyin'. I'm not interested!"

"Fine, fine," Atsumu finally relents, picking up on the tell-tale sign that his brother is actually getting mad. He peers over the counter. "Looks good!"

"Nothing special today. The last of fatty tuna goes to you, even though you're an ungrateful and annoyin' human that I unfortunately happen to share the same face with." Osamu passes the plates over so Atsumu can set them down on the table. Atsumu sticks his tongue out at him. Their mother laughs, shaking her head. "I'll pack some for Shouyou-kun later, too."

Atsumu's gut twists into knots at the mention of his name. "Oh." He licks the back of his teeth, gaze dropping down to the table. "Yeah, he'd like that."

He can feel Osamu's frown even without looking up, but he says nothing and heads out from behind the counter to join them at the table.

"Shouyou-kun?" Their mother asks curiously, looking between the two of them. "Who's that?"

"His best friend," Osamu says, sliding into the seat next to their mother. "They are inseparable."

"Oh?" Their mother arches a brow. "That's nice. What about Bokuto-kun? He's very energetic and bright! I like that boy very much."

"Shouyou-kun's not my best friend," Atsumu says, then grabs an onigiri from the plate and takes a massive bite. Osamu's onigiris are usually really delicious, but they taste especially bland today. Atsumu can't detect a single flavour. He looks down miserably at the onigiri—is he not allowed the simplest pleasure in life now?

"Whatever it is, they're really close," Osamu says, munching on his onigiri. "It's actually pretty amazin' how Shouyou-kun can stand him. That little guy seems popular wherever he goes, but he still hangs out with 'Tsumu!" Osamu's definitely getting back at him now, with all the barely veiled insults he's throwing at him. "God knows what he's thinkin'."

"Don't be so mean to yer brother, Osamu," their mother chides. She's finally done wiping her hands clean with her wipes. "It's always nice to have more friends."

"Yeah," Atsumu says, the deadweight still heavy at the pit of his stomach. He swallows the last of the tasteless onigiri. "It is."

After a beat of silence, Osamu leans his arm on the table and levels a look on Atsumu. "Are ya okay?" 

"Of course," Atsumu replies, flashing Osamu a lopsided grin. "I'm handsome, rich, and successful! I'm more than okay!"

Their mother laughs, patting him on the back. "Oh, Atsumu." Osamu doesn't seem to buy it, with the way he's still staring at him. He doesn't say anything though, thankfully. "He must be tired."

"Yeah, V League's approachin'," Atsumu says, and it's not a lie at all. Practice has been more gruelling than usual. "We are worked to the bones!"

"Good, good," their mother says, nodding her head. "It's good to work hard when you're young."

The three of them lapse into silence as they eat their onigiris. Atsumu doesn't touch the fatty tuna and forces the remaining onigiris down his throat, the heaviness at his abdomen never abating.

"Say," their mother says, wiping the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. "Do ya think you'll have time for dinner some time this month or the next?"

"Huh?" Atsumu stands and reaches over the counter for the container. "I should have time for dinner. Why?"

"A client of mine likes volleyball very much and would love to meet ya," their mother says.

Atsumu drops back down on his seat and unlocks the lid of the container. "The troubles of being too popular!" He pulls out a pair of disposable chopsticks from holder and splits them apart. "Sure, I can make time." He shoots a look at her out of the corner of his eye. "Is the client a difficult one?"

Their mother blinks, then smiles as the confusion clears from her expression. "Oh, no, I wouldn't trouble ya for things like that. He'd just love to meet ya for dinner and get a signature, that's all." 

Atsumu cocks his head to the side, slightly suspicious now. It doesn't seem like their mother to do favours for people out of the kindness of her heart.

"She wants you to meet his _daughter_ , not her client."

Atsumu clenches his jaw, sucking in a deep breath to quell the sudden spike of anger.

Their mother snaps her head over to Osamu immediately. " _Osamu!_ "

"Oh, c'mon, Mum," Osamu says, rolling his eyes. "Imagine 'Tsumu findin' out on the spot." He jabs his chopsticks in Atsumu's direction."It's _'Tsumu_. Not gonna be pretty."

"Mum." The title tastes all sorts of wrong on his tongue. "I won't be going."

"You're single! What's wrong with helpin' my son?" Their mother crosses her arms like a petulant child and lifts her chin. "She's pretty and from a good family. I just thought it'd be nice for ya two to meet! I'm not forcin' anything."

"You should tell me 'bout it beforehand, at the very least." Atsumu looks away from her, knowing he's seconds away from yelling. The ugly ball of anger is still simmering under his ribs. "I'm not goin'."

"Why?" He hears her rummaging through her bag, and focuses on transferring the fatty tuna over to the container. "I'll show ya her picture, and maybe ya will change yer mind."

"I said no." Atsumu's grip is tight around the chopsticks as he shoves the last piece of fatty tuna into the container, then locks it again with the lid. "Stop tryin' to convince me."

“I think it might be good for ya to meet more people,” she continues after a beat of silence, when Atsumu doesn’t respond. “You really just hafta be more adventurous!”

“No.”

"Atsumu," their mother says, adopting the tone like he's ten again and can't tell her he likes to colour the sky purple just because she thinks it's supposed to be blue. "She's really very interested. It wouldn't hurt to—"

"And _I'm not!_ " Atsumu finally explodes, slamming a hand down on the table. He glares hotly at their mother, who's staring back at him with a shell-shocked expression on her face. He's shaking uncontrollably, white-hot fury surging angrily through his veins. "I said I'm not interested! I have someone I like already, so leave me alone!"

"'Tsumu…" Osamu starts, looking equally taken aback.

"I'm leavin'," Atsumu says shortly, grabbing the container and violently shoving the fabric divider out of the way when he leaves.

He makes his way back to his apartment building without thinking much at all, the anger slowly retreating to a dull numbness settling in his chest. When he finally stops before the door, he cracks a wry grin when he realizes where he is.

He'd taken the packed food for Shouyou, of course, but he hadn't really thought about how he should do it. Will Shouyou want to see him again in private like this? He still remembers Shouyou's expression when he said no to his invitation a few days after they returned to Japan. Isn't he being a dick turning up as he likes when he's the one who forced a distance between them? 

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket, but he doesn’t make any move to pick it up. It’s probably Osamu checking on him, because he can be considerate and caring where it matters, but he doesn’t think he wants to talk to Osamu for a while even though it’s no fault of his. He did him a favour by telling him about the daughter, but it’s easy to be reminded of their mother when he thinks about Osamu, and Atsumu doesn’t think he’s ready for any conversation with Osamu yet. The vibration ceases, and the tell-tale indication of a new message follows shortly after.

He exhales a shuddering breath and stares down at the container he's holding in his hands. 

"How long do you wanna stand there?"

His heart jumps to his throat. He turns, slowly, and sees Shouyou standing a few feet away from the stairway, clad in his favorite One Piece hoodie and baggy pants. 

Shouyou offers him a tentative smile. "Planning on knocking?"

Atsumu swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "I wasn't sure…" He holds out the container instead of continuing. "I brought these for ya. 'Samu made them."

"That's nice of him," Shouyou says, stepping forward to take the container from him. "Help me say thanks!"

"Yeah, of course." Atsumu scratches his nose, watching as Shouyou dig through his pocket with one hand for his keys. "Where did ya come back from?"

"I was with Bokuto-san and Akaashi-san just now." Shouyou's keys jingle loudly as he swings the door open. "Had dinner with them."

"Ah. I see." 

Shouyou pauses at the doorway, then angles his head back. Shouyou rakes his eyes over his face, brows scrunching together slightly at whatever he seems to find.

"... Wanna come in?"

Atsumu exhales, not even aware he was holding his breath in the first place. "Are ya not busy?"

"Do you want me to be?" Shouyou cocks his head to the side. 

"No!" Atsumu flushes hot when a small smirk tugs at the corner of Shouyou's mouth. "I mean—I'm coming in."

Shouyou's apartment feels as familiar as ever, even though it's been two weeks since he's been here. He settles him down in the living room and heads off to the kitchen to make some tea.

Atsumu busies himself with fidgeting the loose thread of his sleeve as he sits obediently at the low table. Shouyou returns in a few minutes, setting down two cups of hot tea.

"Thank you," Atsumu says, wrapping his hands around the cup. The warmth seeps into his palms; a nice reprieve.

"I went to help out for volleyball clinic today," Shouyou says, when the silence is stretched on for far too long. Atsumu nods, remembering that's what he always does on Saturdays. "There's a kid who couldn't dig or pass properly even though he's been practicing really hard. He seemed really disappointed in himself, so I looked for him after practice to talk to him."

"What did he say?"

Shouyou shrugs his shoulders. "He wants to quit."

"So easily?!" Atsumu snorts. "The beginnings are always the hardest! If he can't even handle this, he's not gonna last anyway!"

Shouyou levels a look on him and Atsumu immediately snaps his mouth shut, knowing he's currently on thin ice. 

"He's just a kid, Atsumu-san," Shouyou says, rolling his eyes. Atsumu suppresses the urge to argue how, when _he_ was a kid, he hadn't let anything drag him down when it comes to volleyball. He's sure Shouyou didn't allow that, either. "Anyway, I didn't stop him. There's more to life than volleyball—don't look at me like that!" Shouyou huffs, but his eyes are twinkling. Atsumu grins back at him, warmth suffusing in his chest. 

"Volleyball _is_ life for me, but that's not how it is for everyone. I'm lucky to have found what I love since I was young, but there are plenty of others who aren't as lucky. They take lots and lots of time before they're sure of what they want, and that's okay, too!" 

He blows across the surface of the tea. "I told him volleyball isn't fun all the time. There are highs and lows whenever you spend a long time doing something. He may have hit a low, now, but that doesn't mean he'll stay at that point forever! I promised to coach him the best I can and to give it a bit more time before he decides to quit. Decisions made while you're upset sometimes turn out to be ones you regret the most." Shouyou fixes his eyes on Atsumu's. "Don't you agree?"

"Yes," Atsumu replies, nodding his head slowly. He wonders if Shouyou is using a roundabout way to take a jab at him, then dismisses the thought as easily as it came. He surely isn't as petty as he is. "Did the boy agree in the end?"

"He did!" Shouyou grins brightly. "I was glad he decided to stay. I didn't want to force him into anything, of course, but I was still happy."

"Teachin' kids really seem to be yer thing, huh.”

Shouyou shrugs his shoulders. "I like kids! I took care of Natsu a lot when she was still a baby. My mother was really busy with work, since she was working two jobs back then." He smiles wistfully. "I'm glad I can help out with money now."

Atsumu doesn't ask, but Shouyou answers the question he's pretty sure is plastered on his face anyway. "My father died in an accident when I was six. Natsu was barely one. So it's been just the three of us." 

Atsumu can't imagine how hard that must have been. "I'm sorry."

"Don't look at me like that, Atsumu-san!" Shouyou laughs. "It sounds terrible, but I honestly don't remember much of him to really miss him." Shouyou wraps his hands around his cup. "I'm just happy now that I can help lift some burden off my mother's shoulders." 

Suddenly, Atsumu gets it. Why Shouyou gave—is still giving—so much to be one of the very best in volleyball. Why he has to fly over to the other side of the world to make sure he's done his best _to be_ the very best in the sport. He doesn't have the luxury of failure like the most of them. If he doesn't manage to reach the top, he probably wouldn't be able to pursue volleyball at all.

"You're amazin', Shouyou-kun, and I'm sure they're very proud of ya," Atsumu says honestly. He reaches over to wrap his fingers around Shouyou's wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

"Thank you, Atsumu-san." Shouyou's eyelids lower by a fraction, and the look in his eyes is impossibly fond as a slow smile unfurls across the length of his mouth. "You're pretty amazing yourself."

Atsumu's heart clenches in his chest.

When Atsumu returns to his own apartment that night, the knotted tension at the pit of his stomach has disappeared. He digs out his phone from his pocket and pulls down the notification bar to see three missed calls and one new text message from Osamu. 

_I’m okay,_ he types in reply, and it oddly doesn’t sound like that big of a lie.

🏐

In retrospect, Atsumu was too arrogant to think he could've followed through with maintaining a polite distance with Shouyou. It's always been hard to take his eyes off Shouyou even back in high school. Shouyou’s like the a type of serve he’s never met before, and he can’t figure out the number of steps he should take to understand and claim it as his own. Maybe he’s simply a problem he doesn’t want to solve—maybe he wants Shouyou to be here, a name stuck between his teeth that he’ll never forget and will always remember, even when he’s long gone. 

He's wondered if part of the attraction stems from the fact that Shouyou looks criminally attractive with hair long enough to tie into a mini ponytail, but even now, after he’s seen Shouyou snip off the inches of hair before the training camp in Okinawa, he thinks Shouyou’s the most attractive person he’ll ever meet.

Shouyou shifts against the seat of the plane, the slightest hint of annoyance crossing his face. 

“Stay still,” Atsumu says, then plugs in one side of his earpiece into Shouyou’s ear. It’s going to be a two-hour flight to Okinawa, and though Shouyou’d perform perfectly whatever the amount of sleep he manages to get, he’d rather Shouyou make the most of it. 

He’s been complaining about the time difference between Japan and Germany even though they’ve only spent a week there, and they’re taking off to Okinawa for their training camp a mere two weeks after returning to Japan. Shouyou probably only survived in Brazil because he hadn’t needed to travel much. 

Shouyou drops his head down on Atsumu’s shoulder, then perks back up almost immediately. “Is that One Piece?”

“This entire playlist is from One Piece.” Atsumu rolls his eyes, then looks away to pull down the window shades, feeling his cheeks grow hot at the way Shouyou’s staring at him like he’s gifted him the sky, or something equally ridiculous. 

Shouyou cushions his head on Atsumu’s shoulder again, quiet. 

After counting to ten in his head, Atsumu plucks up enough courage to bury his hand into Shouyou’s hair, and closes his eyes as he rests his head on his. 

🏐

By November, they have fallen into a routine. 

They go for practice, head to the gym with Bokuto and Sakusa, before he invites himself into Shouyou’s place for dinner as they watch the episode of One Piece Atsumu last stopped at, or a romance film that Atsumu feels like rewatching. Shouyou isn’t a huge fan of them, because he’s all about the _action_ and _violence_ and the _thrill, but_ he eventually concedes to Atsumu, anyway. 

Sometimes, when Atsumu feels up for it, Shouyou continues to teach him English, patient where it matters and strict where necessary. If Atsumu had met Shouyou earlier, he’d probably have mastered English by now. 

Shouyou fits himself back into Atsumu’s life like he’s always been there, along with the occasional Inarizaki meet-ups, the visits to Onigiri Miya for free and good food, and turning up at Bokuto’s apartment whenever he feels like it. 

“Ya should learn how to cook, Bokkun,” Atsumu complains, dropping his head back against the couch. “I’m _starving!"_

“You can cook, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto passes him the bag of chips he stole from Akaashi’s stash under the kitchen sink, shaking it noisily as an offering. “The pizza should be arriving any time now!”

Atsumu glances down at the bag of chips “Shouyou-kun will _kill_ me if he’s here.”

Bokuto shrugs his shoulders, then retracts his offer as quickly as he’s extended it. “All right then!”

“Bokkun!” Atsumu whines, making a futile grab for it as Bokuto presses the bag of chips to his chest and slides further away from him towards the television. “I’m gonna tell Keiji-kun you stole his chips!”

“And I will tell Hinata you _ate_ chips!”

Atsumu gasps, straightening his back so he can level a glare on Bokuto. “That’s playin’ dirty! I thought we were friends!”

“I will think about it,” Bokuto says, then pops another chip into his mouth, munching on it cheerfully. Atsumu’s torn between throwing a cushion at him and taking a photo for blackmail material. “Where’s Hinata, anyway?” 

“Off to find little Natsu and his friends.” Atsumu hugs the cushion closer to his chest. “V League’s startin’ next Saturday. It’d be hard to meet them in person for a while.”

Bokuto wiggles his bottom on the floor closer to the couch, then lifts the bag of chips over to Atsumu again. “Natsu’s playing some instrument now in high school, isn’t she?”

“She started quite a while back, I think.” Atsumu snatches a chip from the bag before Bokuto can pull a feint again. “The trumpet! Pretty cool, huh?”

“I thought she’d do sports like Hinata, actually,” Bokuto says absentmindedly, shoving three chips into his mouth at once. “I heard she’s very athletic.”

“Ya don’t hafta do something just because you’re good at it.” Atsumu licks the salty residue off his fingers. “Shouyou-kun says his sister is really enjoyin’ music.”

“That’s nice!” Bokuto drops his head back down on the couch. “She was so tiny the last time I saw her! I wonder how tall she is now.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Well, not really. Hinata showed me her photo.”

Atsumu huffs, then relaxes back into the couch, not even aware he’s straightened from his seat in the first place. “I’ve seen her photo too.”

The pizza arrives in the middle of their half-assed argument over who’s the hardest team to beat in Japan’s V League for the upcoming season, and Atsumu pays for it before he dumps the pizza on the low table.

“I actually feel guilty for eatin’ this,” Atsumu says, staring down at the generous amount of cheese and pineapples on top of his pizza slice. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s really good, though!” Bokuto takes a huge bite of his pizza, then uses his teeth to snap the thin strand of cheese. 

“I know,” Atsumu moans. The folded slice of pizza in his hand is _sin._ “It smells really good, too.”

“It’s the Hinata influence,” Bokuto says, shaking his head. “Akaashi and I went through that phase too.” He flicks a casual glance up at Atsumu. “Not sure if it’d just be a phase for you, though.”

“What does that mean?!” Atsumu munches into his pizza and chews it as loudly as he can with his mouth open. Bokuto looks unbothered by the noise, rolling his remaining slice of pizza into his mouth. “I can eat whatever I want!”

“Of course you can,” Bokuto says, like he’s talking to a child. Atsumu scowls. “What are you gonna do when Hinata flies off?”

“Flies off?” Atsumu echoes. “What do you mean?”

Bokuto pauses mid-bite, looks up at Atsumu, then blinks owlishly at him. “What do I mean?”

“Don’t act dumb, Bokkun,” Atsumu says, scrunching his brows together. He sets the half-eaten pizza down on the cover lid of the pizza box. “What do you mean, _when_ he flies off?”

“Nothing! I meant _if._ Y’know, since Hinata’s here and there all the time,” Bokuto says vaguely, then rips away a second slice of pizza, leaving uneven edges on the neighboring slices. “Just wondered.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes at him.

“Did you know,” Bokuto says abruptly, “that Akaashi and I are dating?”

Atsumu’s about to tell him that his diversion’s not going to work when the words sink in. 

He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. “What?” He manages to say, after gaping like an idiotic fish for a good few seconds. “ _What?!_ ”

“Yeah.” Bokuto grins widely. “I’m lucky, aren’t I. Akaashi’s really happy, too, so it’s a win for both of us!”

“Wait—wait.” Atsumu holds up a hand, then scrubs it over his face. “When did y’all start? How did I miss this?!” The realization suddenly dawns on him, clear as day. “Is that why you and Shouyou-kun kept laughing whenever we said…” Atsumu cuts himself off and doesn’t continue any further. He’s only just realized what a dick _all of them_ have been, making a joke out of a relationship simply because they are both… 

“We started dating when I returned from Poland on my first break.” Bokuto takes another bite of his pizza. “I decided that if I like Akaashi, I’d have to go for it!”

Atsumu continues staring at Bokuto, still at a loss for words. He has no idea how he could have _not_ seen it, because everything makes so much more sense now. How blind has he been?

“Akaashi ran away from me for a while, y’know,” Bokuto says, looking up from his pizza and fixing his eyes on Atsumu’s. “I thought he hated me at first. Then I thought more, and wondered if someone who really hates me would add a Poland clock to his homescreen and talk to me till it’s three in the morning when he has a paper due the next day.”

“Of course not,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be dumb!”

“Yes, don’t be dumb,” Bokuto repeats, still not looking away from Atsumu. 

“What are you tryin’ to say, Bokkun?” Atsumu finally asks, shifting uneasily under the weight of Bokuto’s stare. He picks up the forgotten slice of pizza from the cover lid of the pizza box.

“That,” Bokuto says, “sometimes people run away from things they really want, because they are scared.” 

“... I don’t keep extra digital clocks on my homescreen.” The pizza tastes bland in his mouth, and there’s a heavy knot twisting at the pit of his stomach as he tries not to think about what Bokuto is suggesting. 

“It’s not about keeping digital clocks, Tsum-Tsum.” There’s a small smile on Bokuto’s face when Atsumu looks up. “It’s about what you’ve done to keep someone closer to you the only way you know how. There are some things that are worth the risk.”

If it were said by anyone else other than Bokuto, Atsumu’d probably bust a gut laughing because of how _awfully_ cheesy that sounds.

But because it’s Bokuto, and because it’s obvious he’s known a lot more than he’d let on, Atsumu stays up all night thinking about One Piece, his web history on trumpets, and the fatty tuna he didn’t think twice about giving away.

🏐

The Sendai gymnasium turns out as crowded as he’d imagined. The stalls are slotted side-by-side with brightly-coloured banners hanging at the front, and the air is laden with the smell of fried chicken and takoyaki. People of all ages are streaming around the stalls, chattering loudly as they go around the stalls, and there’s a kid stomping his feet as he demands for popcorn, tugging on the sleeve of a young exasperated-looking woman. Shouyou and Bokuto tilt their heads back in an oddly synchronized movement, sniffing, then scamper on ahead like two excited puppies, darting around the food stalls like they have never seen them before.

“They are gonna bump into someone at the rate they’re going,” Inunaki says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants.

Atsumu can’t help grinning as he watches them disappear into the crowd. “They are like long-lost brothers perpetually runnin’ on some adrenaline high.”

“As long as they don’t dirty their team jackets, they can run around for a few minutes more.” Meian cranes his neck to look above the crowd as they weave through the throngs of people into the inner part of the gymnasium. “I see your brother there, Miya.”

“Where?” Atsumu follows the direction Meian’s looking at and spots the familiar Miya cap Osamu always wears when he’s making onigiris. Even from here, he can see a gaggle of girls forming a small semicircle in front of his stall. “I hope he saves some onigiris for me. I’m the true fan!”

“We are all fans!” Oliver says, wrapping an arm around Atsumu’s shoulder as he leans his weight on him. Atsumu hunches forward with the towering bulk of muscle mass weighing on his shoulders, and sighs. “He’s gonna save some for us, right? We will pay!”

Sakusa wrinkles his nose.

“Onigiris aren’t bad at all, Omi-kun!” Atsumu wags his finger at him. “To be a man of culture, you’ve got to appreciate this delicacy!”

“To be a man of culture, I just don’t have to be you,” Sakusa deadpans, adjusting the mask on his face. 

Inunaki and Thomas, who were occupied with their own conversation at the side, burst out laughing. 

Atsumu glowers at the three of them. “See if I don’t set the ball to y’all later!”

“Don’t fight, kids,” Meian cuts in before anyone can continue the squabble. He pushes up the sleeve of the team jacket to check his watch. “The coaches should want us in the room by six. Make sure Bokuto and Hinata are back by then.” 

Oliver finally slides his arm off Atsumu’s shoulder to fall into step beside Meian, and Atsumu rolls back his shoulders in relief. 

They reach the locker room with the tag _MSBY Black Jackals_ after a few minutes, and they all stream in to dump their bags on the benches. 

“I’ll go find them,” Atsumu tells Meian, before he slips out of the room and navigates his way out of the quiet hallway into the foyer that’s sprawled out to accommodate the seemingly endless number of stalls. 

He doesn’t have to look for long because there’s a loud wailing that catches his attention almost immediately. Grimacing, he turns his head to find Shouyou and Bokuto standing in front of a wailing kid with a woman who’s bowing her head profusely.

“What happened?” Atsumu asks as he comes up behind them. 

Shouyou and Bokuto snap their heads back in surprise before an almost comedic look of relief crosses their faces. “I thought you were Meian-san!” Shouyou exclaims, then appears to remember there’s still a wailing kid in front of them, and turns his attention back to him.

Atsumu peers over Shouyou’s head and stares at the still-sniffing kid with an empty ice-cream cone in his hand. He immediately recognizes him to be the same kid who was crying for popcorn just now.

“It’s fine, m’am,” Shouyou says, grinning broadly at the mother. Oh man, did the kid bump into them? Inunaki and his mouth, really. “I have an extra one! It’s okay!”

“I’m so sorry!” The mother says, bowing her head for what looks like the umpteeth time. “Kanata, _apologize!_ ”

The boy miraculously stops crying, then lowers his head with his face still scrunched up like he’s about to burst into another bout of tears, and says, “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay!” Shouyou ruffles the boy’s hair and flashes him another grin.

After a few more apologies, they finally manage to leave the scene with Atsumu leading the way to the team locker room. 

“It looks bad,” Atsumu says to Shouyou, when they have turned into the inner part of the building. There’s a huge obvious patch of brown, sticky ice-cream at the front of Shouyou’s team jacket. “Take the jacket off; ya can wash it after the match.”

“We need to wear team jackets for the briefing, though,” Bokuto says, frowning. 

Atsumu quickens his pace when the team’s designated room comes to view. “I always bring an extra one around. It’s the black one, though, so you’ll have to make do.”

Atsumu finds the black team jacket easily, folded neatly near the top in his sports bag. He lets Meian fuss over Shouyou for a moment before he waves the black jacket in his hand to catch their attention.

“Thank you, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou slips his arms into the sleeves of the black Jackals jacket as he beams up at him. 

The jacket wears a little too loosely at his shoulders, and the sleeves reach beyond the tips of his fingers. Even though he’s trained up a solid build over the past few years, it’s only now that Atsumu sees the difference in size between them, when he’s wearing _his_ clothes. Atsumu runs his tongue over the back of his teeth and wishes, for one impulsive moment, that he has a marker pen to scrawl his name over the back of the jacket. 

“Atsumu-san?” Shouyou steps forward, right into his personal space, and tilts his head back to meet his eyes. 

Atsumu edges backward by an inch, knowing that if Shouyou gets any closer he’d probably hear the frantic thrumming of his heart. “No problem at all.” His voice comes out low and slightly raspy. Flushing, he clears his throat and drops his head to take Shouyou’s hand. “The sleeves are too long; I will fix them for ya.”

Carefully, he rolls the hem of each sleeve up three times, so it wraps snugly around Shouyou’s wrist. “Perfect,” he says once he’s done, satisfied with his work, and looks up to see Shouyou staring at him with the same intense look in his eyes he remembers from the Lycurgus match.

His stomach ties itself into knots, and he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Hinata! Go wash your hands and go for your usual bathroom thing!” Meian shouts from the other side of the room, and some of their teammates snicker in the background. 

Atsumu drops Shouyou’s hand that he hasn’t even realized he’s been holding, and shoves his hand into the pocket of his own team jacket, fingers curling into a tight fist. “Go on,” he says, jerking his head to the door.

“Uh, yeah.” Shouyou nods his head like he’s just shaken himself out of a daze, a subtle red coloring his cheeks. “Okay! See ya!”

He bends down to rearrange the items in his bag as he listens to Shouyou run out of the door, heart pounding hard against his ribs. A sudden weight leans on his shoulder the moment the door clicks shut. Atsumu turns his head to the side, and sees Bokuto arching a brow at him. 

“What,” he says flatly. 

Bokuto flashes him a grin. “Just checking on you!” 

“Sure you are,” Atsumu mutters. He’s convinced Bokuto’s having a kick out of this, no matter how good the secret psycho is at hiding it. It must be karma for all the times he’s made fun of him and Akaashi. “Go away.”

“I haven’t checked on you yet!” Bokuto whines, then almost immediately perks up again, his eyes shining. “Should we go to the bathroom too? Then I can check on _both_ you and Hinata!”

“Shut _up_ ,” Atsumu hisses, feeling heat creeping up his neck. He shrugs Bokuto’s arm off his shoulder as he stalks to the door. “I’m leavin’!”

“Bathroom?” Bokuto calls out the question from the locker, still sounding every bit innocent as he’s way too adept at masquerading. 

“To _pee_!” Atsumu snaps back as he reaches the door, ignoring the rising laughter from the rest of the team.

With his hand wrapped around the knob of the door, he catches an oddly familiar voice saying, “ _Wanna try me?_ ”

“ _Later!_ ”

Is someone about to start a fight with Shouyou? Right here? Furrowing his brows, Atsumu wrenches the door open and steps out to see Tobio with his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, raising a clenched fist like he's poised for the ultimate showdown of his life. Even though his tone had been mildly threatening, there’s a barely-veiled excitement glinting in his dark eyes that’s _too_ focused on Shouyou. 

An ugly monster coils tightly at the base of his throat. _He’s_ my _hitter now._

“Whoa, hold it,” Atsumu drawls, stepping towards Shouyou and leaning an arm on his shoulder, clothed in _his_ team jacket. “Tobio-kun, wouldja mind not pickin’ a fight with _my_ wing spiker, hmm?” 

Tobio lowers his fist and unrolls his sleeve, looking slightly put-out that they got interrupted. “I didn’t pick a fight. _He_ picked one with _me._ ” 

“Oh! Oh!” Bokuto’s voice rings way too loud in his ears before the door even slams open. “Who picked a what just now?! Rice balls? One of Myaa-sam’s, maybe?! Those look so good! I want one!”

There’s a familiar onset of a headache at his temples as he tries to calm Bokuto down. He should’ve known that he’d follow after him—there really isn’t a moment of peace with them around. Despite this, he feels more complete than he's ever been in a long, long time.

🏐

“ _I_ _’m sure the recent world tournament is fresh in the Black Jackals’ minds, when Kageyama ripped off five service aces in a row against France. Will they be able…”_

Atsumu feels a smirk slanting across his mouth. Japan hasn’t seen their new line-up in action, too, reinvented and invigorated. They have some idea of what to expect from Sakusa, but they don’t know Shouyou, who remains a complete blank slate—for now. They have _no idea_ what’s going to hit them.

Tobio starts off with a vicious jump serve, the ball slicing through the air over their heads and heading right for the edge of the sideline. Shouyou dives forward with a wide lunge and bumps it up cleanly, dropping his hands down on the ground for a split second as the ball flies in a high arch towards Atsumu.

 _That’s my Shouyou-kun,_ Atsumu thinks, overwhelming pride filling every single pore of his body. He knows Shouyou’d be sprinting forward now, not one to relinquish any opportunities to attack. _First things first… We gotta make sure we say a proper hello._

He sets the ball high behind him, right where he knows Shouyou will be. He turns just in time to see Shouyou pushing off the ground like a feral beast unfurling his wings, soaring so high up his entire body is nearly above the net, and then he whips his arm back and slams the ball down to the backzone of the opposing court. 

The ball bounces off the ground towards the ceiling as everyone remains frozen in their positions, all sharing a similar looks of disbelief and amazement. 

_What a monster,_ Atsumu thinks, corners of his mouth curving with impossible fondness. 

🏐

They take the championship for the season’s V. League. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, really, with how flashy their first game of the season was. In the final game against the Red Falcons, they managed to win the game three-to-two. As expected, Aran’s offensive power has increased even more this year and he’s significantly improved on both his speed and stamina.

He had grinned even though his team had lost the match, and grabbed Atsumu’s hand in a firm handshake as he asked for a get-together since everyone’s gathered in the area after the tournament. Though the Inarizaki gang had their own scattered meet-ups, it has been a while since the entire group of them have made plans together. The group chat was more active then it's ever been in a while the entire night, and Atsumu stayed up till four-thirty in the morning sending annoying memes and snubbing Osamu every opportunity he got. It felt like old times again, when everything was simpler, and Atsumu revels in it.

It’s also why Atsumu turns up thirty minutes late for the customary drinking session with the entire team at the bar tonight. The managers had booked the entire section on the second floor for the team at the bar they usually go to, cordoning off the area to other customers so they can have their privacy. Bokuto waves him over once he greets the managers and coaches, and he heads over to his table, where Inunaki looks like he’s already on his third pint of beer as he cajoles Thomas into drinking more.

“Why are you so late?” Thomas asks, taking a gulp of his beer. “You’re the last to reach!”

“I overslept,” Atsumu says, sliding into the empty seat next to Bokuto after he drapes his coat over the back of his chair. He chances a quick glance at Shouyou, who’d only flashed him a quick smile when he arrived, and is now uncharacteristically focused on his phone. “Did they send special compliments to the best setter in Japan?”

Inunaki snorts into his beer. 

“They did mention some particularly bad first serves,” Sakusa says, smirking over the rim of his cup.

“Asshole!” Atsumu sticks out his tongue at Sakusa. “Like _you_ have never messed up yer first serve!”

“No fighting, no fighting!” Bokuto drapes an arm around his shoulder and shoves a cup of clear liquid under his nose. “Tsum-Tsum, hurry and drink up!”

Atsumu leans forward and catches a whiff of vodka. He wrinkles his nose. “I’ll drink this later.”

“It’s vodka lime! It will cleanse your palate!” Bokuto says insistently, shaking the cup too close to his face as the liquid sloshes dangerously inside, close to spilling. 

“Okay, okay, fine!” Atsumu grabs the cup from Bokuto before the alcohol is dumped all over his shirt. 

“All in one go!” Inunaki says cheerily, clinking the bottom of his glass on top of Atsumu’s. “As penalty!”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, knowing that Inunaki’s just using him being late as an excuse, but gulps down the entire thing anyway. The vodka runs smoother down his throat because of the lime juice, giving it a refreshing kick. He turns the cup over to show Inunaki that it’s empty. “Happy?”

“Very,” Inunaki says, grabbing the jug to refill his cup of beer. “I never knew you were that good at keeping secrets, by the way. How long have you known?”

“Known what?” Atsumu asks, blinking back at Inunaki, nonplussed. 

“The two of you are so close,” Thomas says, frowning, “surely you knew he’s leaving?”

Slowly, Atsumu turns to Bokuto and arches a questioning brow. Bokuto shakes his head, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not the one leaving.”

With a dawning realization that clogs itself at the base of his throat, he fixes his eyes on Shouyou, who’s still typing into his phone. Inunaki pats Shouyou on the shoulder to get his attention, then jerks his chin to Atsumu. 

“Sorry, sorry, I must have been rude!” Shouyou offers Atsumu a grin. “What were you saying?”

“That,” Atsumu says, “you are leavin’?”

Shouyou’s smile wobbles at the edges. If Atsumu hadn’t spent that much time with Shouyou, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell. But he can. And he _hates_ that he can. “Yeah, I’m flying off to Brazil after Kurowashiki.” 

“That’s in a month,” Atsumu says, after a beat of silence.

“Yeah, give or take!” Shouyou wraps his hands around his untouched drink. “I didn’t want to tell anyone until it was confirmed! Sorry you only got to know now.”

Shouyou meets his eyes straight-on, not avoiding his gaze in the slightest. He said it like there’s nothing wrong with letting Atsumu learn he’s leaving the same time as everyone else—like Atsumu’s the fucking _same_ as everyone else on the team, to him. The initial numbness morphs into a tight bundle of irrational rage, wedged at the center of his chest. He clenches his fists on his lap, and gives a stiff nod of his head. 

“Good for you,” he says, forcing a smile. He grabs Bokuto’s half-finished beer and tilts it towards Shouyou. “congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Shouyou replies, dropping his gaze. “I, uh, am waiting for a call, so I don’t think I should drink yet.”

“What,” Atsumu says, corner of his mouth curling. He fixes his eyes on Shouyou, who’s staring down at his drink. “Can you not even deign me with a _sip_ , since you’re leavin’?”

Bokuto tugs him at the elbow. Atsumu shrugs him off, still not looking away from Shouyou. “Tsum-Tsum…”

“Isn’t it about nine?” Sakusa says abruptly. “Don’t you have a call at nine, Hinata?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shouyou says, getting up from his seat and grabbing his phone from the table. “I will be back.” He meets Atsumu’s eyes for a brief moment, and the look that crosses his face has Atsumu’s heart lurching to his throat. He turns and heads down the stairs without a backward glance.

“Uh,” Inunaki says, shattering the sudden awkward silence. “Wanna get some food? Fries? Wings?”

“Fries, please!” Thomas says, ten times his usual enthusiasm. He leans into Inunaki to peer at the menu. “Should we get more beer?”

Atsumu exhales, knowing he was way out of line just now. He shouldn’t have said that to Shouyou, and especially not in _that_ tone. 

“Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto pats him on the shoulder. “Shall we go get the orders for everyone at the counter?”

No one brings up the fact that they can simply wave the waiter over, and everyone places their orders with Bokuto taking them all down on his phone like the good person he is, before he grabs Atsumu by the elbow and steers him out of the area. 

“Why were you so angry?” Bokuto asks, their pace slowing as they walk down the stairs to the ground floor. “There’s no need to take that tone with Hinata.”

“I know.” Atsumu runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “I was a dick.”

“You were,” Bokuto agrees, stopping at the foot of the staircase, where the music and loud chatters from the crowd on the ground floor don’t yet cover their voices. “But you should think about why you were angry, Tsum-Tsum.”

“I was just…” Atsumu swallows, curling his fingers into the fabric of his sweater. “I thought I was different to him, compared to everyone else.”

“Do you realize how arrogant that sounds?” Bokuto stares at him, unblinking. He doesn’t sound like he’s scolding him either, but like he’s trying to drive a point home. “Do you know why you don’t have the right to expect that from him?”

His gut twists in knots, and he doesn’t say anything in response.

Bokuto narrows his eyes. “Do you, Atsumu?”

The use of his first name, especially by someone who’s usually so easy-going, has him dropping his gaze to his shoes. He feels slightly sick. “I know.”

“Sorry.” Bokuto claps a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. When Atsumu looks up, it’s the normal Bokuto again, his eyes brightly-lit and his mouth curved in the ever-perpetual grin. “Hinata’s like my little brother. I understand your position, but you haven’t been exactly kind to him, either.” He cants his head to the side. “I hope you figure out what to do soon, and I hope your decision will be kind to the both of you.” He perks up, his grin widening. “Let’s go get the orders, okay?”

Atsumu allows himself to be led to the counter, weaving past a few stumbling drunks and passing more rowdy tables than he can count, then watches Bokuto rattle off the orders from his phone. His attention drifts to the outside of the bar, and he watches the passing cars through the smudged glass window panes with the strangest sense of detachment.

Bokuto’s right: he hasn’t been kind to Shouyou at all. Perhaps he hasn’t been kind to himself, either. He’s never cared about what’s difficult and what’s easy; as long as something looks cool enough—as long as he _likes_ something enough, he beats out a path for himself to achieve his goal regardless of what others may think. 

Why should this be any different? It’s definitely not because he doesn’t like Shouyou enough. He likes Shouyou so much to the point he thinks he might actually be in love with him. And really, he should’ve seen this coming when Shouyou gave him his scarf outside the gymnasium, when he saw Shouyou setting for the first time, when he finally gave into the desire he’s locked away and kissed Shouyou with his alcohol-addled mind, and when Shouyou took him in his arms, even when he’d been sobbing on the toilet seat moments earlier.

He’d always known that he’s helplessly drawn towards Shouyou, all this time. 

“Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto’s voice drifts to his ear, snapping him out of his thoughts. “They said they will take the orders up to us.”

“I will head out for a bit,” Atsumu says. “Go on without me. I will be back.”

Bokuto stares at Atsumu for a moment, then smiles at whatever he sees in Atsumu’s expression. “Okay. See you!” 

Atsumu heads to the exit in a dazed state, stepping out of the bar with the chilly night air whipping past his cheeks. He exhales a misty breath and rubs his hands on his sweater. He really didn’t think this through. He should have grabbed his coat before coming out here. He cranes his head and looks around, then wanders behind the bar to where the open-space carpark is.

He finds Shouyou with his phone pressed against his ear and his body draped over the metal railing as he knocks the heels of his sneakers on the ground repeatedly. Atsumu crosses his arms and shoves his hands under his pits for some warmth.

Thankfully, it takes only a minute or so before Shouyou lowers his phone from his ear and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans that, Atsumu now notices, clings so tightly to his thick thighs and calves that it looks like second skin. Atsumu licks back against the roof of his mouth and forces his gaze upwards. 

Shouyou has buried his hands into the pockets of his cream-white hoodie by now, but he still doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to return to the bar any time soon, with the way he’s still leaning against the railing. The queasy feeling returns at the pit of his stomach as he wonders if he’s the reason for it.

He drops his hands down by his sides and strides towards Shouyou, cold forgotten and heart pounding furiously against his ribs the last few steps forward, then takes the spot next to Shouyou. 

Shouyou snaps his head to him, eyes widening in surprise when he realizes who it is. “Atsumu-san.”

A heavy silence hangs between the two of them.

“Sorry,” Atsumu says, after a beat of silence, swallowing around the lump at his throat. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh.” Shouyou plasters a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Atsumu’s stomach turns, knowing he’s the one who’s forced Shouyou to make expressions like this not once, but twice. “It’s okay.” Shouyou faces forward again, staring out into the carpark. It’s only half-filled, and there’s no one around except for the two of them. “I should’ve told you earlier.”

“It wasn’t right of me to expect that from you,” Atsumu says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Atsumu-san. I understand.” Shouyou tugs on the collar of his hoodie, then drapes his arm back over the railing. “I’ll be going back soon. You didn’t have to come get me.”

“I didn’t come here for that.” Shouyou angles his face towards him for a brief second, brows furrowed. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it.” 

Shouyou cracks an actual smile this time, and Atsumu relaxes slightly, unfurling his fingers from his sweater he hasn’t realized he’s been clutching. 

“I really like fatty tuna,” Atsumu says, and Shouyou’s smile widens further, indulgent, like he’s waiting to hear the punchline to one of his jokes. Atsumu’s heart clenches in his chest. How can he ever think he wants to give this up without trying at all? “I had a fight with my mother the other day, when I came to find you.” Shouyou’s smile fades from his face, and he shifts so he’s facing Atsumu properly.

“She wanted to set me up with the daughter of one of her clients’. Didn’t tell me shit and just said it was a simple dinner. ‘Samu didn’t give a fuck and exposed the charade almost immediately.” A corner of Atsumu’s mouth lifts at the memory, now. Sometimes he really wonders where he’d be without Osamu. “I was angry. Really angry. Shakin’ and all, y’know.” 

He grins at Shouyou, who reaches to lay a hand over his on the railing, cold fingers wrapping around his. Warmth fills in the gaps between his ribs, and Atsumu rests his other hand over Shouyou’s before he can pull away. 

“I tried to keep my temper in check, tellin’ her to stop talkin’ and that I wasn’t goin’. She didn’t wanna let up. I yelled at her in the end.” Atsumu tightens his grip on Shouyou’s hand, fixing his eyes on him. “I told her I already have someone I like, and that I’m not interested in meetin’ anyone else.”

The streetlights soften the sharp angles of Shouyou’s face, and his eyes are the brightest he’s ever seen. “Atsumu-san...”

“And y’know what’s funny?” Atsumu steps forward, right into Shouyou’s space, so their sneakers are now toe-to-toe. Shouyou doesn’t move away, eyes glimmering and lips slightly parted. “I packed the fatty tuna, still angry as fuck, and then ended up right outside yer door even though I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout where I was goin’.” Atsumu offers Shouyou a tentative smile. “I guess it’s at that point that I realized I’d look for you, no matter what. Even if—” He stops himself when he remembers Shouyou’s comforting arms around him that night. “Even _when_ I’m scared, I know I will still look for you.” He feels like he’s peeling the layers of his heart open for Shouyou, but he doesn’t allow himself to stop there. “And I know I will always _want_ to look for you, in the end.”

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou says. “How much can you drink?”

“Huh?” Atsumu blinks down at Shouyou in confusion, not expecting that as the first response. “Definitely more than the one drink I had just now. Give me more credit, Shouyou-kun.”

“You’re not drunk now, are you?” 

Atsumu huffs. “No. I’m not _that_ weak. I guess ya must think I’m bad with alcohol with how you’d to take care of me that night, but I’ll have ya know—”

“Shut up,” Shouyou says, then pulls his hand free to cup Atsumu’s jaw with both hands, and kisses him. 

Atsumu answers to him unthinkingly, willingly, bending down slightly and reaching to frame Shouyou’s face in his hands. Shouyou presses his thumbs on Atsumu’s jaw, sweeping his tongue across his parted lips, and Atsumu opens up for him without hesitation. Shouyou kisses him deeper, every stroke of his tongue sure and purposeful, like he’s mapping every inch of his territory, like he’s making sure Atsumu remembers every single fucking detail this time. 

Though Atsumu remembers snippets of what happened that night, he doesn’t remember the _details_ of them. He doesn’t remember the heat of Shouyou’s tongue, or the way his fingers had curled almost possessively at the back of his neck; neither does he remember the rough calluses of his hands pressing into the line of his jaw, or the breathless moans Shouyou’d stolen right from his mouth.

Shouyou slows the movements of his lips, then pulls away slightly to press a chaste kiss on the corner of Atsumu’s mouth. “Sorry,” Shouyou says, a throaty quality to his voice, and Atsumu can only stare at him, heart slamming furiously against his ribs. “Forgot we are in public.”

Atsumu tamps down the sudden spike of panic at the reminder, his stomach twisting in knots, and forces himself not to look around.

“Don’t…” Atsumu clears his throat. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

Shouyou doesn’t say anything for a moment, studying his face, then he reaches to wrap a hand around Atsumu’s, trapping his restless fingers in the warmth of his steady, anchoring grip. “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone saw us.” Before Atsumu can open his mouth to explain, Shouyou shakes his head. “I really do understand, Atsumu-san.” 

He squeezes Atsumu’s hand one more time, then pulls back to shove both his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Sorry about Brazil. I tried telling you about it for a while, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t sure if there’s any point in telling you—if you even cared about where I went after.”

A dull ache throbs right where his heart is. “Shouyou-kun…”

“I know. I should’ve talked to you, anyway. I guess we are both cowards, huh?” Shouyou smiles. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No,” Atsumu says honestly, shocked the thought even crossed his mind. He scrunches up his face. “Why would I do that? I’m genuinely proud of ya! I was only upset because I was the last to know.” He pauses for a brief moment, then adds, quietly this time: “And also because I don’t want to lose you just because I’m scared.”

Shouyou’s eyes are soft under the streetlights. “Does it sound stupid if I said I kinda wished you would try to stop me?”

Atsumu’s lost for words for a moment, raking his eyes over Shouyou’s face and taking in his genuine smile but serious eyes, before he throws his head back and laughs. “I never thought I’d hear something like that comin’ from yer mouth!”

“Well,” Shouyou says, after Atsumu’s laughter has subsided, “I will only be with them for a season. There’s a national team I’ve my eyes on, after all.” Shouyou grins cheekily at Atsumu.

“Someone’s gettin’ cocky,” Atsumu says, laughing again as he reaches over to ruffle Shouyou’s hair. 

Shouyou catches his hand before he pulls away, fingers pressing into the thrumming pulse at his wrist. “Won’t you be there too?”

“Of course I will,” Atsumu says, slipping his hand free from Shouyou’s grasp, then slides his fingers into the gaps between Shouyou’s. “I will be waitin’ for ya.”

Shouyou tightens his grip on Atsumu, a soft dimpled smile appearing on his face. “And I will come back to you.”

🏐

Atsumu brings Shouyou to Onigiri Miya a week later.

Osamu usually closes the store early on Sundays, and it’s predictably empty by the time they reach the store at about three in the afternoon. The lights are all turned off except for ones hanging above the counter, and the chairs are all neatly placed top-down on the tables neatly arranged along the walls. 

“Good evening, Osamu-san!” Shouyou greets him brightly the moment he steps into the store, trailing right behind Atsumu. “Pardon me for intruding!”

“You’re not intrudin’ at all,” Osamu says, wiping his hands on his apron as they take their seats at the counter, “the guy beside you, on the other hand, is a different story.”

Atsumu scowls at him as Shouyou laughs. “I’m yer brother; it wouldn’t kill ya to be nicer.”

“It really might,” Osamu says, then turns his attention to Shouyou. His eyes are narrowed as they linger on Shouyou’s face a moment too long—it’s the same look he has back in high school when he’s taking apart the strategy of the opposing team, or when he’s close to figuring out the recipe for one of his original-flavoured onigiris. To his credit, Shouyou holds his gaze steadily and doesn’t look away. “Y’all seem really close. How nice are _you_ to my brother that got him so taken with ya?”

“I don’t know how taken he is with me,” Shouyou answers, then angles his face so he’s looking at Atsumu, a corner of his mouth lifting to a lopsided grin. “But I’m very taken with him!”

 _He’s so fucking shameless,_ Atsumu thinks, heat rising up his neck. He clears his throat and averts his gaze to fix his eyes on the onigiri drawings pinned on the wall. There are so many now that some of them overlap with each other, but the alien onigiri still stands out among them, and Atsumu thinks he actually kind of likes it now. 

Osamu snorts out a laugher, pulling Atsumu’s attention back to him. “Is that so,” Osamu says, dipping a hole at the center of the rice in his hands. “Now, that’s something I haven’t heard before.” The look in his eyes has softened a little now, and the smile that crosses his lips is more genuine. “Anything you’d like to eat in particular, Shouyou-kun?”

Shouyou beams. “I’m not picky at all, Osamu-san!”

“Why are _you_ calling him Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, waving the pair of chopsticks he just pulled out from the holder. “Y’all aren’t even close.”

“Oh please.” Osamu rolls his eyes. “ _Shouyou-kun_ doesn’t mind, does he?”

“Nope, I don’t mind it at all!” Shouyou catches Atsumu’s hand and pries the chopsticks from his grip. “It’s fine, Atsumu-san.”

Shouyou squeezes his hand once, then pulls his hand away to slot the pair of chopsticks back into the holder. Atsumu juts out his bottom lip petulantly, but says nothing. Instead, he runs his eyes over the menu hanging behind Osamu to see if there are new additions.

“Oh!” Shouyou shatters the silence and points to the wall of drawings, noticing them for the first time. “Are those drawn by your customers, Osamu-san?”

“Yeah, they are,” Osamu replies, turning back to grab two plates from the rack. “It’s mostly drawn by kids, though.”

“They are adorable!” Shouyou scans the entire wall of them, his eyes brightly-lit with interest. Atsumu feels his mouth curving at his show of excitement, watching the myriad of expressions crossing his face in a span of seconds. “That one’s special!” He points to the alien onigiri, then turns to Atsumu. “It’s so creative! I love it.”

“‘Tsumu calls it the _alien onigiri,_ ” Osamu says, before Atsumu can get a word in. “He thinks it’s weird.”

“Why?” Shouyou furrows his brows. “Because they should either be round or triangular?”

“Well,” Atsumu says loudly, rubbing his thumb over the crease between Shouyou’s brows to smooth the skin over. Atsumu drops his hand as Shouyou’s cheeks colour a light red, and his mouth slants to a smirk. “I’m kinda fond of it, now.”

Shouyou beams at him, the cute dimple indenting into his left cheek. He turns to Osamu. “Can I draw something too?”

“Sure,” Osamu says, and when Atsumu angles his head, he catches a strange look on Osamu’s face as he stares at him. A deadweight rests at the pit of his belly; a familiar queasiness that Atsumu’s all too familiar with—that he _hates_ that he’s familiar with.

He averts his eyes and slides off his seat, gesturing for Shouyou to follow him. “C’mon, I will show you where the paper and crayons are.” 

They drag off the chairs from one of the tables closest to the wall of drawings, propping them the right way up. Atsumu grabs a sheet of paper and the entire box of crayons from the wooden box nailed under the board, then spreads them out on the table for Shouyou. 

“Don’t draw a Mikasa,” he tells Shouyou.

Shouyou narrows his eyes at him, but there’s no heat in his glare. 

Laughing, he ruffles Shouyou’s hair fondly. “I was jokin’,” he drawls. “Draw whatever ya want, okay? I will go over and see if ‘Samu needs help.”

“Okay!” Shouyou turns back to the blank piece of paper and grabs a black crayon from the box. Atsumu allows his eyes to linger on the broad planes of Shouyou’s back for a moment, then watches Shouyou tap the tip of the crayon on the piece of paper to some unknown rhythm. A small smile crosses his face, and he turns to make his way back to Osamu.

“Why are ya so slow today?” He asks, leaning his folded arms on the counter. “Need the assistance of a famous volleyball player?”

Osamu doesn’t even look up from the onigiri he’s currently shaping in his hands. “Shouyou-kun’s busy drawing.”

“ _Me_ , I’m talkin’ ‘bout _myself_ ,” Atsumu says, reaching over to slap Osamu lightly on the head. “Dick!”

“Is this how you treat someone who feeds ya?” Osamu flicks an irritated glance up at the brim of his cap, which is slanted sideways from his hit just now. “Fuck you; adjust it for me.”

Atsumu grumbles, but adjusts Osamu’s cap for him anyway, making sure it sits properly on top of his head as Osamu begins placing the onigiris on the plates. “Done,” Atsumu says grumpily, and drops back on his seat. 

He props his chin on his hand as his eyes drift over to Shouyou, who’s hunched over his drawing, right hand moving over the piece of paper in fast, sure strokes. He briefly entertains the thought of seeing a gigantic volleyball filling every inch of the paper, and cracks a smile.

“You know,” Osamu says abruptly, shattering the silence between them. Atsumu makes a noncommittal hum at the back of his throat. “If you’re happy, that’s what matters to me, right?”

Atsumu’s attention snaps back to Osamu. 

“We share the same face,” Osamu says, setting the plates on the counter. He flicks a glance over at Atsumu, who’s staring back at him, stomach tied up in knots. “I’d rather not see some ugly look on it.”

“Wow.” Atsumu feels horribly exposed all of a sudden, like his skin’s been peeled down to his bones. There’s an urge to laugh off whatever Osamu’s saying, but he sees the rare, serious look in Osamu’s eyes, and it fades away almost immediately. He wets his lips, uncertain, then says, “Thank you.”

“Don’t be gross,” Osamu says, then catches Atsumu’s expression and rolls his eyes. “Not ‘bout _that_ , since you obviously aren’t ready to talk ‘bout it, but because you’re actually being _genuine_ and that shit creeps me out.”

Atsumu rubs his hand over his face, then snorts out a laugh. 

“Go check on yer precious hitter and let him know the onigiris are ready,” Osamu says, waving him away. 

The warmth nearly envelopes him, tightening around his throat. Atsumu opens his mouth, wanting to say thank you again, but the words are heavy on his tongue and hard to get out a second time.

“I get it, asshole,” Osamu says, wrinkling his nose, but the corners of his mouth are twitching, like he’s holding back a smile. “Don’t get all sappy on me.”

When Atsumu returns to Shouyou, he seems done with his drawing. He looks up when he feels Atsumu draping an arm over his shoulder, flashing him a bright grin as he lifts the paper above his head for Atsumu to admire. “I’m done!”

There are at least fifteen onigiris sketched all over the paper, most of them wearing a different hairstyle that’s drawn with careful strokes of the black crayon, and shaded in with a variety of colours.

“I drew a bunch of people from Karasuno and the Jackals!” Shouyou says proudly, rattling off a long list of names as he points to each of them, before he continues, “There’s Osamu-san here, too, with Aran-san, Kita-san, and Suna-san—I could only remember the names you’ve mentioned to me! Sorry if I missed anyone out!” 

“Why did ya draw them here too?” Atsumu asks, amused, realizing there are more than fifteen onigiris at this point, all of them wedged on a single piece of paper with barely any space between them. “There’re so many people here.”

“Because they’re important to you!” Shouyou says, matter-of-factly. He turns back to his paper, considering. “I could have drawn them better, I guess! Did I get the color wrong for any of them?” 

_Shouyou-kun_ , Atsumu thinks, his heart squeezing and squeezing beneath his ribs, _is impossible._

He flicks a quick glance over to check that Osamu’s still occupied at the sink, the sound of water running from the tap, and then cradles Shouyou’s chin in his palm and tilts his head back gently. Shouyou blinks owlishly up at him in surprise, then flushes a pretty pink when Atsumu presses a kiss on his forehead.

Atsumu grins down at him, then slides his fingers away from his face and continues studying the picture. “Is that me?” Atsumu points to one with its fringe swept to the left after a pause, the mop of hair colored in the ugliest mustard yellow he’s ever seen.

“Yes!”

Atsumu grimaces. “The yellow…”

“... is as ugly as yer’s!” Osamu completes his sentence as he sidles up next to Atsumu, apparently done with the dishes at the sink. “I like ya, Shouyou-kun!”

“I didn’t have much of a choice—there’s only one shade of yellow,” Shouyou says, patting Atsumu’s shoulder instead of coming to his defense. “Don’t worry; I still like you no matter how ugly your hair is.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he beams at him, and Atsumu finds himself at a loss for words. 

“God,” Osamu wheezes, “come whenever ya like, Shouyou-kun, I will give ya free onigiris!”

“You’re _not_ supposed to gang up with my brother, Shouyou-kun!”

Shouyou laughs, and Atsumu feels his hand wrapping around his on the other side of him, their tangled fingers hidden from Osamu’s view. 

They head to the counter later, tasting the new flavours of Osamu’s onigiris, and Shouyou expresses genuine interest in how Osamu comes up with new ideas for his recipes, and tries to dig for the secret behind his tasty onigiris. Osamu asks about the dishes Shouyou picked up from Brazil, and Atsumu can see the thoughtful look on his face as he nods his head while Shouyou talks, definitely making mental notes on some bizarre filling he wants to try for his original-flavoured onigiri menu. 

Sometimes, when Atsumu looks up and sees the clear blue sky, he thinks about how he’d coloured it purple instead. There’s still a crawling sensation under his skin when he feels someone’s looking at him the wrong way, when someone makes a completely flippant remark about boys liking boys, and when his mother’s words echo in his head like a broken recorder he’s unable to get rid of completely.

But, at this moment, as he watches Osamu and Shouyou talk about food, then move on to make plans for a pickup game with their friends from Inarizaki and Karasuno, he thinks that everything will probably turn out better than he’d ever imagined in the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> -if you'd actually read this to the end, i hope you like this!!! thank you for giving this fic a chance <3  
> -shoutout to leo for listening to me whine about this fic forever and helping me with the graphic!!!! i dont love horses as much as you do but i will try  
> -im sorry if i wrote the volleyball stuff wrong. i tried my Bestest i swear, but there are some things you can't get better at even when you try and i'm simply an idiot when it comes to sports  
> -ive had to stop myself from typing yer when I'm texting  
> -my excuse for not using ya consistently is bc it wasn't used consistently in the manga  
> -(real reason: it doesn't sound as nice in some of the sentences if i use ya LOL)  
> -im also very sure there are errors i didn't catch so i hope you close an eye..  
> -pls don't jump me for that  
> -feel free to hmu @sleepyflakes !!!
> 
> edit bc i forgot: i wrote the first 25k on shinchan ost
> 
> edit2, more important than the shinchan ost: half the reason I wrote this was bc i realized hinata was the only one wearing the black jackals jacket in his vleague debut game and I'm like hm I wonder why and went like, IT CAN BE ATSUMU'S


End file.
